on love

with foreign woman

talking broken English

a first time moment with the other in their company.

we have met completely drunk

to celebrate as two strangers

her being

one month old in fabled Europe.

done with social medias

she is unreachable outside family

she is away from what it is she has run away from.

in pub at bar sat on wooden stools

foreign woman begs the question:

what does love mean to you?

a heavy load

is delivered softly.

there is barely one-hundred pounds

of curvaceous her

in a world of blue existence

but these words

hit like a true heavyweight.

she drinks well

as i think

about the question:

ink black hair looks good

slicked behind pointy ears;

her emerald eyes are encased by mascara.

sweat and apologies i say

she rolls those eyes, takes a drink

give me more before i go, chico

i think about situations

where love may have been a consideration

as the clock ticks.

a morning boner poking against their side

she nods, wipes her lips

concealed smiles, sideway glances?

good chico.

we order two.

and when does love scare you? she says

when it knows too much, i say, but understands fuck all.

si chico, si.

whiskey comes next

a richer pub experience.

more, chico

it’s buckets of blood

uh-huh?

and the flies

si?

that buzz around those buckets

i see

they’re part of love.

oh-kay.

last orders are signalled

with the ringing of a bell

this empties the room

as though

an alarm has gone off.

i light one up for the road

for each of us.

then ask,

as ash falls

and smoke rises

what love means to her.

she stands tall

to finish off her glass

wipes lips with back of hand.

come, she says, i can show you.