I been with more than enough women to know none of them
were perfect for me, and I wasn’t perfect for them.

Which is why I hate that romantic love is random.
Maybe you’re okay with that, good with the luck of the draw.

But I’d like to have better odds with love instead of having
to settle for the randomness of it.

It’s sweet and euphoric at first when in the throes of new love,
the rose blooming, you don’t see any imperfections.

You don’t see the signs that you really aren’t in love with a
person who is ideal for you.

You close your eyes to faults. You suffer incompatibilities
until either you just do nothing about them or break up.

God! How I hate that romantic love is so random. If there’s
romantic love in the afterlife, I hope it’s precise and perfect.

But, of course, that’s probably foolish thinking, and maybe
the afterlife is just the me I identify with buried in the ground.

And romantic love is no more.

Bob Boyd