When nocturnal night settles in,
bringing extreme darkness and cold,
those fake imitation stars
glowing lambent,
glued on the roofing,
secretly narrate the
intimate certitude
of effusively fond people
living under;
ironically similar kind
trying to fit in
side by side,
lame jokes and smiles,
bickering and fights,
tickles and laughs,
blissfully conjoined,
and impeccably content;
living the
not so ideal life,
yet, how buoyant they are.
Those bogus, pseudo stars
recount the everyday jiffies
of weird people living under,
in amazement and curiosity
as to how they make it possible.
Perhaps,
they are both
greatest and incurable idiots,
unobtrusively in love,
abnormal and cynical,
passably hopeless,
and peculiarly inexplicable;
yet, perfect and unconquerable
their devotion is…
©passionbookworm
The Drunken Confessions 