Sleeping the weariness off in the evening
after soaking my lungs with nicotine –
I have a clean bed with purple flower patterns
on the bedsheet –

I dream of this girl
who has:
emerald green eyes
through which she glances wistfully
at the leaves soaked by the kisses of rain.

She holds my hand and dances –
her feet touch the ground –
tap-tap sound;
my hand slide through hers
and she doesn’t miss a move;
I am a terrible dancer.

She follows me through the puddles,
fuming traffic,
asking me questions about
my personal well-being,
and I answer truthfully –
to lie to her would be
smashing a bottleful of Georgian wine
on the parched, summer-beaten ground,
or staring at the sunny side until it burns you
to a crisp.

I say:
I am terribly lonely.

Like a Venus flytrap,
she embraces me in her arms
and I…