The dark circles under my eyes tell the story of Rio.
As do the blood-shot beauties themselves.
My sunburned chees and bug-bitten legs, both tell the story of Rio.
That pain in my stomach that’s equal parts hunger and hangover,
The combined smells of cheap liquor, sunscreen, and DEET,
The film in my camera, and the samba in my head, all tell the story of Rio.
Rio is trying new things, meeting new people,
Losing them to the city, and then losing yourself.
The ******* cab drivers and broken-English streetwalkers all are parts of Rio.
Rio is sleeping pills, energy drinks, and getting home at sunrise.
Rio is the place that the big man Himself watches over.
Someone needs to, because Rio is a game,
And Rio always wins.