Tell me I don't make you smile,
and squirm
in the best sense of the word.
Tell me I'm vile,
ensured
that I can't make your thoughts heard,
with flowers and sweets,
in rhythm and beats
that could simply drive you crazy.
Tell me the things you tell yourself,
that are, frankly,
more than a bit hazy.

I dare you,
to just once
not let me scare you,
and in months,
you'd be laughing in fits
and in ink you'd be writ
with words still unthought
and passion unwrought.

So, go ahead, Lovely.
Tell me I'm not worth it,
too wild and on a wire.
Tell me I can't make you yell,
because I'm young and unrequired.
Tell me I don't make you laugh,
and fill your eyes with fire.
Then sure, you could call me unromantic,