Post-Coital

Bed

A post-coital dilemma,
Is you, missing something,
The unassailable beauty,
Sold by the romance industry,
Those sold at counters all over the world.
How love sometimes is,
Unquantifiable and unequaled
And yet sometimes,
As blue as a blueberry.

Tristesse is a moonless night,
Clouded by your fanatical need
To picture the naked moon,
As cloud cover ruins your mood.
Like how a first-time visitor to Paris,
Gets a dose of the Paris syndrome.
Over-glamourized and overpriced,
Which is really, no different,
To the first time.

An epiphany
Is just like a streak of vulnerability,
A thorn in your psyche,
The scaffolds of first-time lust,
That are just landforms,
Topologies that prosper,
In spite of castles in the sand,
That get wiped out,
The first time you crash.

Expectation is a bitter pill to swallow,
Like how legendary is.
The stature of love is always
A size below expectation,
When you realize, you had overshot.
A little death turns to be an austerity,
Smaller than a huckleberry,
Or a hummingbird,
And faster than a tear-away bullet,
A sudden death, which like Maggi noodles,
Transforms to an edition,
Of instant blues.

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