St. Valentine’s Day Massacre
Always the same.
I should’ve prepared. It’s not like they didn’t tell me. As soon as the turkey curry repeated on me, they were festooning the shops with the gaudy red, the hearts and the semi-naked cupids. Get ready, Clive, they shouted.
Yet, I waited.
Maybe I’m a visionary. A modern-day James Dean, fighting the unfair commerciality of love. Only more chunky. Only more unconventionally handsome. A rebel without a Paws.
Paws. Oh, how she mocks me. Her cutesy kitten fluff-body, wrapped in oh-too-big eyes that look like an all-night nineties raver on one too many E’s and caffeine tabs.
The purrfect Valentine’s gift. So the adverts say. She wants one. I don’t know why. But what chance have I? I should’ve basked in the warmth of the e-store and their smiley-box deliveries.
And now, a gladiator of the malls, a stalker of the aisles. In the annual St. Valentine’s Day massacre, my only weapons are my phone and my don’t **** with me eyes. But, it’s too late.
Maybe, I’ll just get her nothing. My love for her should be enough.
Yeah.
I’ll express my love in the form of word. For I was once a childhood poet. A Haiku. In one of those rainbow cards.
Sorted.
Metropolitan Dreams 