If I were old and heavy-hearted,
this young romance could not have started,
making October into spring,
and me able to anything.
I don't know, an adult might say,
you well enough to feel this way,
nor does mere pilot data prove
a trend, long looked for, up to love.
But if it's immaturity
to want what I can barely see -
your heat, your hipbones, your shy smiles,
set off by clothes, a hundred miles,
a baker's decade flecked with rage -
then I don't plan to act my age.