The bed and quilt are no more to be worn,
no more complains to get priorities,
no more shoutings, no more blames,
the kitchen now is enveloped in cold.

I remember when the rooms were full of content,
I remember when complains and cries simply used to turn into love,
I remember when house had turned into home,
but those things are now just left as memories.

The stairs then boisterous victimize me with solitude now,
the evening then playful are harder to spend now,
the window which hold the secrets of our night,
is now locked, looks dusty from outside.

This was all planned; well and before,
confessed and were compelled to do it,
and way then diverged to converge later,
with memories and hopes only left behind.