I’m the womb where ardor & promises are born
I’m the tomb where ardor & promises drown
I cherish dreams as I grow brick by brick, stone by stone
My roof stands joyous witness to every whisper and moan
I’m the envy of the neighborhood
privy to cuddles & kisses
to misty futures & imminent hopes
to throbbing orgasms on a floor of wood
Ah, but fickle love snuffs out
Shrugged off, used & abused
Wrung dry of all rasa in indecent haste
Redundant as a leaky condom flicked in the waste
Robbed of novelty & longevity
Emotions fizzle out into brevity
Far apart have my cozy birds flown
My wounds into scars have grown
Their moments wither, but memories survive in my hearth
Neither inert nor lifeless, my empty nest awaits rebirth
Har ghar kuch kehta hai (Every home tells a story)
The trauma of transitory infatuations –
borne by the abandoned love pads of ephemeral lovebirds.
Can a house forget the moments & emotions which its human occupants toss aside so nonchalantly?
Is every non-living thing necessarily lifeless?