At the end of the day it’s always about her.

At the end of the day when you finally retire to what you refer as home,

Try to sleep because your eyes demand you to,

Blame yourself once again for the mistakes and screw ups along the way,

At the end of the day it’s always about her.

When you try in vain to free yourself from the clutches of selfish world,

World which you left her for,

World which seemed like a perfect paradise,

Until it got over and you woke up to the reality.

You woke up dreaming of her.

She was your destiny once, but you chose the diversion.

For it looked tempting and yielding to temptations had always been your weakness.

Weakness that became a habit now and she became your karma.

How badly now you yearn for the acceptance of long due apologies,

And a time-machine that could put you back into the lap of golden time.

Time when you were still with her and had not fucked up things yet.

You see yourself smiling with her walking together through busy streets,

You see yourself kissing her hands and watching her melt into your wide arms.

You wake up again to the darkness around.

3 am.

You try to sleep again, close your eyes to fool the world.

At the end of the day, it’s always about her.