The moment you traveled back to me,
I couldn't love you the same.
I couldn't pick up, just where you left off,
or even couldn't start it all over again.
There wasn't any beginning or end to it.
I couldn't move, it suffocated me.
I couldn't care less, how she was holding you then.
I couldn't find the same old you.
And you weren't my treasure trove of tenderness anymore.
I felt as if my love was temporary,
maybe it was.
You tell me it's all the same,
the daisies you planted,
the walls we painted,
the smell of my hair,
though its new red color glare.
The night-light I bought,
the candles you got.
The books that you read,
the ones I'd like to keep.
And you still like to smell them in indeed.
The places we navigated,
the ones awaited.
The moments we collected,
the ones enlisted.
you still hate socializing,
and humans aren't my special liking.
You're lactose intolerant,
but love ice-creams.
And for me, ice-creams are eminent.

But lovers lie, don't they?