As they sit across the inert wooden table
in sheer boredom of their midlife,
She stares boldly
at his daily newspaper
eyes fixed
upon some distant thought
aimlessly,
and his cup of hot tea
languishes
in similar toil
as the spiralling steam
of insipid dreams,
diminish,
in vanishing trails of yesteryears
She raises her moist eyes
timidly,
as if in a short shy tryst
this horribly boring old man
will ever renew
his residual charm,
and as her flagging heart yearns
for something far more
than the soft touch of his arm
with a long lost warmth,
When suddenly,
the inert deluge
begins involuntarily,
flood her dungeons
with over a gallon tears
Soaked in sheer hopelessness…
Yet he continues
To stare nonchalantly
at the dusty road outside
And so like his lost future,
And so like his dead past
holding nothing more
than few empty meaningless dreams
But never will he ask
for anything more
than what he deserves
and even if the hot cup of tea
lying right in front of him
remains cold
as his first night…
So there they were
sitting snugly
disapprovingly
habitually,
by the inert wooden table
by the forenoon,
by themselves
forever….