The lost charm

We tend to go back to the start,
when the smells carried a meaning and a laugh,
the impatient inner flutter stayed long after the meet,
the harmonic rustle of two bodies lingered under the warmth of a thin sheet.

The nearing end doesn’t quite feel the same.
The patience is wearing away,
trampled leaves litter our lane.
Beneath the cloak of the characters we used to be,
we are stabbing, and talking
in a foreign language, of decency, and feigning
we are good people trying to make it work.
But collapsing into bouts of hushed sobbing.
In our lustrous lane, the colourful birds don’t sing.
Anymore.

Hoping to see the rainbow at the end of the rains,
we took the leap.
Wet with the slush and the sting, of the present,
we realise
not all rains die with a rainbow.
And incessantly, the inner turmoils grow.

The start seems yet so vivid and clear.
As a bright moon in a grey evening sky,
promising many tales, but escaping glacially into the night,
leaving behind, the towering smoke of desires, the waning light.

The nearing end is painted bleak.
Yet there’s a quaint comfort we seek
in the past.
We tend to go back to the start,
when the smells carried a meaning and a laugh.

The sun is inching down to meet the horizon.
But the paddy fields lack the vibrant orange
on our farm.
It whispers inside me, the lost charm.