They come out of hiding,
appear to be abiding,
searching not, but begging for place,
place not in house, but in heart,
they are into impostering like an art,
you avoid them at start,
but end up dealing,
you look for their wounds,
wounds they have decorated,
to catch your attention,
without even a fleeting mention,
in the conversations
which involve your silences
and their stories,
your copy-paste OKs and their overdose of sorries,
you give them place,
a place in your heart,
whether as a gift of love or a loan of sympathy,
and the problem starts the moment they take it,
they try to make it something of their own,
making you forget the heartbeats you own,
they start coaxing you for more space,
you give them an inch more,
they bargain for square feets,
they nail you on your weak nerves,
even blackmail if it serves.
In world of preconceived notions,
faces hiding emotions,
have now started,
bluffing them too.
A perfectly rehearsed body language,
offering a patronising shake,
but the disturbed palm doesn’t lie.
Their hugs carry less warmth,
shoulders still own the cold vibe,
as cheeks miss the kisses in hurry.
They moist their lips,
in pool of tears.
They borrow saliva,
as their throats have run dry,
from overnight rains.
But they forget,
a paint job,
can cover wounds from outside,
but not heal from within.