Lifeless Life

A Poem by Sri

About the withering nature of love~~~

He comes home late that night.
She watches him as he drifts to the other side of the bed ,
Enveloping the pillow in his tight embrace .
She lays on the other end - her red
flushed face buried inside ,
Trying to find solace in the softness of the pillows .
She tries to fondle his curls like she used to do in the beginning -
a time when he couldn't fall asleep without her touch ,
But she knows her hand would be negligently tossed over this time.
Perhaps he's too tired from work .
And she - of worrying about him .
Midnight hours strike .
Like a crowd of unwanted friends ,
vague pictures cloud her head ‐
A cacophony of unkept promises , untold words and unheard cries of help
come squabbling (there)
to keep her company.
Like a known enemy , webs of 'what ifs' strangle her ,
With slow quiet steps she escapes to the balcony for some air.
And clutches onto the iron railings
to keep herself from breaking down.
Far away in a mansion , a dim purple light twinkles in the third floor room ,
The silhouette of a man scribbling little messy poems on a woman's nape-
She can well hear their cries of pleasure , the overlapping gasps and groans ,
Wasn't it- was it her husband's face she saw there?!
Her hands tremble , lips purse and eyes widen at the thought of it.
Strangely , a venom of suspicion spreads all over her soul and fogs her power to think logically,
numbs her senses for the time being.
A severe fear
creeps into the harrowing halls of her heart .
A severe fear of loss.
She slouches against the wall ;
maybe the bricks in the walls and the tiles of the floor reminisces the bygone memories too ,
They had witnessed how the lovers turned into strangers ,
They had seen it all.
The two of them ,
their hands entangled ,
her head resting on his shoulder ,
His endearing stare
and her shy smile,
Soft caresses
and sweet nothings ...
She can sense the walls laughing wickedly now , mocking the pathetic mess she now is.
She switches on her
anti depressant and consumes its blue white rays
Scrolling down and down through the oldest texts for the
thousandth time - she can still smell them , permeated with the scent of young love ;
Still relish the playful flirtations , the little caring messages he'd send from his office .
The single text these days ,
appearing in her notification once in a week , assures her that he still has her number.
Then the dreadful night recedes into daybreak , with the usual clinking of dishes and whistling of pressure cooker ,
The tears vanish - leaving no marks but long trails down the cheeks ,
and a lump in the throat.
She is soon greeted by
a thoughtless "Good morning" ,
And even worse , the usual ‐
"I may be late tonight"...