what is it like to sit on laundromat tiles with fish eyes blank slack jaw words coming out "you're too young" my porcelain skin isn't china doll thin; i've felt things inside that rupture stitching that morph into a blazing hot sun because i feel it's burn in every molecule thrown under microscopes and watching the chemical reaction of knowing you're in love and being in love and always wanting love with the one person who gives you love as amebas you can't measure the age "oh yes it's love, no doubt about that" scientifically proven. but when you add a slight skeleton skin with cuts and scars from off balanced racing on concrete with feet that feel every material of every terrain and wide eyes that smile because life can truly be beautiful. when you add all that- love somehow becomes less potent as if the inner bonds of feeling are taken less seriously. tell me this; my lips curve around his name and my voice box softens and slows, dragging out letters like they hold a story in each one and to me they always will should that change with age, should it lessen? my heart pumps in the same rhythm that it will 20 years from now. love has no age it exists in timeless capacities and does not know numbers, it will not see them it sees two hands holding one another gently like sacred white doves alighting on aspen branches with roots that bury in deep- but bark as tender as newborn babies