Why is the prosaic not good enough?

Papery pink flowers frame the rock formations characteristic of this city,

they fall,all over the place,isn't that the phrase so many people use to describe their lives.
I stare at the stale air that hovers over empty tables in a cafe,so romanticized like the streets side ones of Paris but these have unlit yellow lamps above them,because it's 2 pm and the sunlight is too bright and a couple of bougainvilleas peek from behind the green cane shutter ,greeted by a clump of bamboos.
I wait for an almost something,nothing at all.It's not the butterfliesinyourstomach kind of anticipation,it's different this time and as I wait for my iced tea to arrive,it's not the voice I was waiting to hear that I'm met with.It's almost as if it doesn't exist,it's just make belief.