It's funny how she still likes antiques
When in him she knows not his heart, but his money
His slicked hair bothers her eyes
His hard heels keep her careful of not falling
asleep too close to him in the night
It's funny how she still likes antiques
Her living room is a ballroom from the 1920s
And secretly she hates her friend who sits in the
armchair classlessly
But thank God for her friend's grey hair that keep
her feeling like a winner with lustrous brown streaks
It's funny how she still likes antiques
Knowing of which, her mother bought her a vintage
timepiece
But she cringes when mother straps it on her wrist
Ageing mother's rough fingers bother her skin
It's funny how she still likes antiques
Her partner and her friend feel alone in her
company
They secretly spend time tending trees
She comes to know of their waltz around trunks, and sets them free
Boiling with venom inside, she smashes her
expensive antiques
Who she is starting to lose interest in, rapidly
Her ailing mom calls to see her daughter one last
time
But she forgot all about how she taught her to use
the spoon when her fingers were not so fine
So she refuses to see the sight of a wrinkly lady
who is a mother, divine
Her partner and friend lay her mother to rest on
14th of December in daylight
She gets to know of the little union and wails
herself to sleep, which lasts no more than an hour's time
Her heart now runs high on meth, and, on what it
could have been if she had stayed with the light
She now has no admiration for, or, sense of antiques.
-Ananta
