They rewrote songs on the sceneries of their dreams,

under the same roof, in the same room, but alone.

Living in each other’s isolations,

so tiring, boring, sensual, overwhelming, warm.

In thoughts, several severely intimate moments had passed;

their knotted minds kissed intermittently, not seldom.

 

He knew he was boundless, liberal, enraged, , jealous, dizzy,

he thought he was drunk, disillusioned, peaceful, quiet, pure.

Leaning against one wall, looking at another,

minds stuck on marriage, love, movies, music, moon and stars.

Tonight the wine and weed have struck no chord of lust,

the darkness will hear only despair and loss, no moan, no sigh.

 

A few hundred people have mutilated his marriage,

his promiscuity has been disproportionately demeaned.

He is leaving a note tomorrow, seeking forgiveness again,

he will still keep the dinner warm at night, thousand notes have been redundant.

But tonight, he is liberated in their intoxication and silence,

he sees no solace in the silence, but preserves the passive resignation.

 

He and he have been so entwined for ages, or 7 years,

he and he are happiness, but mostly sorrow and overlooked.

He and he seek marriage, maybe a perception of similarity,

he and he fit seamlessly, but are still societal creases.

He and he are as lovely as love between him and her,

he and he are, but, forbidden to love as him and her.