Cool on love

I feel the cold shimmy down my spine—ah yes, the universe’s love letter,  

and the chair leg, a trusty companion, digs into my calf,  

like an old friend who never quite learned personal space.  

Evening sneaks in, cool as a cucumber that forgot to mention it was summer,  

and here I am, sitting, waiting—no, not like the noble poet,  

more like a sucker waiting for a date who’s as timely as a sloth on vacation.

One wonders, doesn’t one, if it’s really so bad to waltz solo through life,  

or if society’s just tugging at our sleeves like an overeager salesperson,  

“Buy one relationship, get a lifetime of complications free!”  

Sure, love has its moments—brief sparks of joy,  

kind of like finding an extra fry at the bottom of the bag,  

but I’ve grown fond of my own company,  

where the only arguments I have are with myself, and I always win.

Am I squandering my time? Their time? Is the universe sighing at my lack of direction?  

Or perhaps it’s rolling its cosmic eyes, plotting a grand adventure for me—  

one filled with music, stories, and zero romantic entanglements,  

because really, who needs the headache?

My cat—ah, the furry sage—offers no deceit, no power plays,  

just purrs, headbutts, and the occasional dead mouse,  

always happy to see me, never late, never annoyed,  

much to ponder, indeed, as the evening cools

me, the cat, and the indifferent, slightly sarcastic universe,  

all wondering what the heck everyone else is so busy fussing about.