With their smacked lips,
and moving hips,
they barge me with queries,
only if they knew how hard it stung.

It's hard being stagnant,
days spent being poignant.
They think I'm a marvel to behold,
while all I need is some one to hold.

All prospects seem astray,
all evaporating in the hotness of May.
Wish I could tell them that I'm lost,
that even I have no plans.

Plethora of what ifs and what nots
avalanche on me like bullet shots.
Wish if I could feel something,
anything except death.