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?