Tuesday, December 16, 2008
The greasy kitchen tiles abandon the oil, each drop at a time falling passively.
Pink Bougainvillea has lost its battle with the mould on the balcony walls.
Uncapped pens lie orphan in the crowded drawers. The ink has dried up.
Thin crust of paint crumbles down from the ceiling , uncovering the emptiness that lies beneath.
Smothered within the piles of laundry, the laughter no longer refrains.
Nervous, sweaty hands stir the insipid curry, it seems one of the ingredients is missing; happiness, may be?
Tears trickle down unnoticed behind a pair of spectacles, the salt encrusted within the folds of the book leave a trail though.
Permanent wrinkles have replaced what were faint smiles once.
A faded, torn, black and white memory is all that remains, for the time is forgotten long ago.
The past is no longer where I left it.
I step inside the roof , only to find myself older.