You often ask:
What are we in this
architectonically trivial world of someone's?
Listen:
I am an open window
That creaks when moved
The frame of which has lost it color
is rough and bug ridden
With ant-houses at corners.
You
My love
Are its curtain
With disparate hand designs on it
Crafted with nothing but love
by a small scale factory worker
In the wee hours of rainy morning
Fluttering away from the frame and
Sometimes coming too close.
Our love is someone's favourite spot
To forget the world.
We are that insignificant.
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