wishing I had someone to hug,
more often bored on the tram
or sitting uninspired on the toilet,
I launch Tinder, I confess.
Purgatory is the maze of photos
I swipe through at impossible speed.
A flick of the finger to say yes or no.
From an undefined, pixelated blob,
to a comics hero with a cliché tag,
catching glimpses of unrealistic six packs
then trying to guess who’s the guy I’ll meet
out of three drunken friends.
Cars, motorbikes, shiny throphies
as much as blonde curvy babes
posing in selfie pout,
perfect macho stereotype.
Kinky pictures of sadomasochist sets.
Twentyseven looking thirtyfive,
and this is only the first ten!
My wish list is not that long!
No business man.
No politician or officer.
An artist and a dreamer
or a musical technician.
An engineer, scientific mind
to balance my artistic side.
Multicultural, funny, caring.
Nice friendly face.
Not too groomed,
the right amount of ruffled,
I can’t resist a musician with tattoos.
I swipe hopefully right
and get rewarded with a ting.
Ego boost rising,
he noticed me too!
Someone thinks I’m interesting, yuhuu!
Hi there, how are you?
Good thank you.
What do you do?
Work, you know… life.
How’s the weather there?
Want to have sex?
Euh, just like that?
How about meeting somewhere crowded instead?
A beer or two, to build up the courage.
I wait checking for escape plans.
I see someone looking lost.
Oh God! Leaving now would be rude?
After painfully dragging a useless conversation
we part ways with a friendly goodbye
promises to fix another rendez-vous.
One date only and I know
we’ll never see each other again.
On the bus back home
it’s so simple to take out my phone
and start the Quest all over again.
Desirable deck of unlimited cards
granting wishes of mock power
I’m Queen of Choices, trashing men
since I will always get one more.