I realised I was unsuited for love some time ago;
Find yourself a blackberry bush.
You can rely on it to do the same each season,
To be utterly predictable, and do what you ask.
And when the day comes to pick the blackberries,
The only blood on your hand will be sweet juices,
And when you wonder if your tended blackberry could ever love you
It’s not hurtful when they answer no; no one would expect it to.
Don’t you just love cheap metaphors? But seriously, blackberry picking is lovely.
The Hapless Neo-Romantic