The distance between me and my unrequited rainbow is 1645 miles. 

She’s got layers, 

she’s got widely admired colours, 

she’s got the ass to be touched by stalwarts. 

But you see at nights, when everything is as dead as a ascending corpse, that distance comes down to 204 miles…

may be less than that, 

may be less the space between two flaming lips, two floating hands. 

Every outspoken nights we fuck each other, we fuck each other real good. 

And then comes the days of running ambiguities, 

the distance: 1646 to infinity, steaming vulgarities to coherent oceans of swallowing emotions. 

I am in no mood of loosing that now, but a man got to be loved at least like the procuring cigarettes after a psychedelic sex, 

of man and rainbow, of moon and rainbow, of man and a whimsical woman.