They tell me I write somewhat ok.

I smile and greet them
as the sun greets
the minarets in the desert,
without a purpose.

Why don’t you write something about love, they say?
something about a terrible broken past,
it sells you know; they will love it,
they always relate to it.

I tell him,
I don’t get the vibes out of it.

Love sometimes feels like
eating leftover chips at
a mediocre burger joint.

I prefer watching dogs
playing in the rain
sometimes.

at least they never pretend.