You were to me like that old bottle of expensive French perfume in my closet, the one I rarely used. Not because I liked it any less than the rest, but on the contrary, because I was afraid that the bottle will get empty one day, and all I’ll have to do is stare at it with longingness and nostalgia, for it will remind me of changed plans and bright outfits, but mostly, mostly of you. And just like that, there’ll be another bottle, and every ounce of memory will be replaced.

The mahogany table does no less than tell me I’m worthless. For it has been standing strong since my grandfather’s days and here I was, sipping ginger tea from exquisite china teacups, frail and wavering. It’s almost like the artist who painted the Maharaja on the wall in front of me, is laughing at the stark contrast the rooms deliver when I’m in them-of victory and mockery, of pride and submission, of wars won and wars never fought.

The chandelier is the worst specimen of ruined regalia. It’s just like me, lonesome. A little too desperate to be loved, to be lit. I know how it feels like, head high, pretending it doesn’t bother you when you’re dying inside. No matter how many renovations take place, some makeovers never work. Even if you’re 18 or 81, some things never change. At the end, everything, life too, is temporary.

Now is the time to pack your bags and leave. Walk towards the bolted door, and just like that, leave, and don’t turn back. Because if you look back for once, you’ll always keep looking back. You’ll always come back to the ruins, no matter what. And you know what? It’ll kill you, slowly but surely. You’ll never come out of this war zone alive.

You know why? Because that’s the thing with desire. It burns you, inside out.

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