the flare, isn’t there
electric lights, under storm clouds
the woman, doesn’t care
She travels to Bogota, Columbia—living out of her suitcase
not even bothering to change
I ask her on a date, like reoccurring rain
she politely declines, opening her red umbrella, with a smile on her face
afraid of getting wet.
She takes baths in water, and runs away from me
She stands in the sun
and wilts, like a sunflower
but without the rain, she complains
it must be bottled, purified, 100%, H2O
“I need to get famous,” I tell my friend.
“You’re enough,” he says.
“I know I’m enough for me,
but I’m not enough for her.
She runs away,
to foreign countries.
She’s going to Georgia next,
despite the war.
unafraid of death.
I wish God could intervene (on my behalf)
but he always sends me a woman I don’t want.”
“Use her, to meet her friends,” my dateless friend of a decade tells me
“I can’t do that.”
“Women do it to men, all the time—they play coy—now, it’s time for some payback.”
I don’t care anymore…
I’ll probably end up scratching my balls
at the end, of my unromantic life