My lover is a city.

She is so distant yet so inviting and friendly

Her absence in every second of me feels more and more surreal

I have others, and they are beautiful, all of them.

Each is a shiny crystal, playing music of rainbow chords.

But none of this music awes me anymore

Like the sound of her silent snowfall 

The sound of her rainy tears

The sound of her cold cloudy laughter 

That makes you feel warmer than summer desert.

I miss waking up next to her impeccable grunge,

Her messy being herself, her dirty politeness - 

if she would be my lover she would wear

19th century jacket with knee-torn jeans

and DIY patches saying "punk is not dead". 

If she was my lover we would go out for pumpkin latte

and indulge ourselves with a classical music concert,

discussing it afterwards over feeding the ducks in the pond

and selfying around in a hipster photography booth.

But she could never be mine,

because she's a city.

I can throw myself to her patched-jeans knees and hope

That something would happen out of this wicked love.