She's home alone on her bed.
By the sofa, on a lamp stand there's a book that she's not yet read.
At nights, she's lonely.
But in the mornings, she smiles gracefully.
She's hiding one thousand feelings behind her mascara.
For, she knows that she can't be fixed by wearing new clothes that's left untouched in her Almera.
She drinks a little.
She dreams to settle.
But the last relationship she had, has got her to trip and stumble.
To look and doubt, every other guy with a clean shave or a crisp stubble.
The wounds that have etched her eye's and heart to fumble—
Jumbled are the words said by men for her to crumble.
She's too silent, nowadays.
She barely laughs at jokes, nowadays.
All she ever is sad, nowadays.
That you, in bitterness are hoping to die.
Hanging onto your life like it was hooked onto a strand of thread.
She's so lonely with her drenched pillows carrying her head.
She barely closes her eyelids when she's lying on her bed.
It isn't chocolate.
It isn't teddy bears.
It isn't her petty fears.
It is her life that's fallen apart over the years.