I sat beside this boy on a wooden
creaked bench, beside a small
coffee shop, taking in a strong aroma
from our cups mixed with the steamy cold wind
I put my mug aside, smelling it one last time
The boy next to me asks in awe
" you didn't even have your coffee,
how can you be content with it ?''

" you don't always need to have things to yourself
for loving it " I say looking at
his eyes which shine with
surreal purple light processing my words
like an analog computer
I pluck a mahogany flower and say
" If I cared for this flower,
I would have watered it over
and not have it plucked for myself"
flowers don't appeal to him, he still nods.
boys like him were always told to
believe that liking flowers could be feminine
and that loving machines is manhood

but it would make us, a red luxury car metaphor
I tell him that loving you was like going
on a test drive of a Lamborghini,
the speedy wind brushing my cheeks
and kissing gently over my lips,
after a while, I need to slow down,
even if the engine squeaks,
I have to know to keep this love
it would cost me great,
and even if I keep it,
what if I wear out the paint,
and leave permanent scars behind?
so, I press the breaks
with the sound of something breaking inside me
and park it back in the showroom,
I cannot own it, but I still adore it.

Somedays love like this one,
sits over soft cushions and watches movies
while daydreaming all the romantic plots
it keeps peddling cycles to reach addresses
but never rings the doorbells,
It is close yet respects the distances

I look down as if to hide a bunch of stories
swirling in my head," what-who-makes
you a believer of this philosophy?'' he asks
I want to yell out your name as
You make me a believer in this romanticism
You make me a believer
You make me believe
You, me, live.