The Question

The Question

"Have you ever been in love?"
he asks me.
I am seventeen,
and to myself I think,
softly,
that each one of us
trips into love
over and over and
over
again in our lifetimes,
until,
just once,
the universe grants us the magic
to make it work.
Aloud
I reply, softly,
"I don't know."
When he presses,
I explain
that one may never know
if they have been in love
until the end of one's lifetime,
in the same way
that one cannot say which
flower smells the sweetest
until they have sniffed a good many.
I think the elderly much wiser
and glad, even,
to know whether or not
they have ever been in love.
Perhaps it's why old,
wrinkle-etched faces
always look so decidedly happy
or so decidedly
sad.