It's three in the morning.

Many Love stories

The world's big enough, y'know.
It can hold more than romances.

There's a place called Salzburg,
The landlord of the fourth
house blue washed house
leaves a bag of fresh bread
on his tenant's doorstep, every morning.

There's a cardboard,
in the center of all neon billboards in Tokyo.
With a drawn penguin on it.
Follow its direction,
There's a staircase down,
Behind two more fireproof doors,
Stands an old man in a suit.
Blazer over a stool.

There's a blonde woman in
sleeveless indigo dress,
Gentleman's club of every nation,
credit card debts.
Broken heels.

There's music.
Which need not the touch of love.
But the understanding of it.

There's sex.
Which need not the confirmation of love,
Just precision in timing and holding off,
The ninth shot of tequila.

There's a surprisingly good barber.
At places you've been ignoring.

There's the last Jazz club in your city,
At places you've been avoiding,

There are trails of blood on the pavement,
Leading to a place only you can see.

There's of course. Love.
I've seen it.
But.
Love falls in price once
utter,
written,
Attempted to recreate.

The world's big enough.
But there's really no need,
For this many love stories.