‘i love young love’
i say to myself, only sixteen
years of age, the words like a loose glove
on myself, as my eyes water and i lean

on a cobblestone wall, each crack and dent
showing not what has happened,
but what will happen, my heart lent
freely to him, broken and saddened

i’ll probably get over him, i say,
echoing his words in my head
on the cobble floor where i lay,
blood trickling out the thread