The Spectacle that is Young Love

it’s shiny and new 
freshly printed currency
that you just can’t let go
running your fingers
over and over
calling him-her your own.
it’s strange and funny
getting to know you
your face, your hands
chest against chest or breasts
lips in my hair
toes playing games of their own.
it’s complex and weird
the lack of longevity
coupled with the absolute fear of commitment 
but also the need for security
an anchor to hold you close
remind you, “better things await you.”

(the need to imitate hims-hers
 who are in turn imitating books and movies
 who are in turn supposedly imitating real life
 interspersed with songs and slow mo
 and cuts off awkward pauses.)

ruffling hair
sleeping on park benches
in silence
looking at each other 
through the lashes
in silence
working your own thought process
forced to listen to people
who you know are
older and maybe wiser
but the spectacle that is youth-
young love, such 
that even when
you know for sure 
the car is going 
to crash and burn
you kiss

don’t hit the brakes.