Yesterday, I sat staring at this white screen for the longest of time.

Trying to figure out how to describe a kind of beautiful sorrow I just saw.

Husband, wife, four dreary walls and a lone staircase.

Seething silence only amplifying the fact that Love is what they're fighting for.

Love, the culprit.

**

The recipe has never been perfected. By chance, once - but never again.

Since then on it was always too sweet, too lumpy, too runny.

But always edible, whatever the circumstances.

I thought I had it today. Bake with Love they say.

Burnt em all tiny supposed melt-in-the-mouth goodness.

Burnt em real dark and good.

It was the saddest thing, prying them off the parchment paper.

Sadder still, to find one good one, tasting it, and finding out

that i almost had it.

And the measurements? Lost.

**

Efforts usually pass by unnoticed.

It's the burning smell, the smoke, the hissing sound and oh, did i mention the smoke? that gets us on our feet.

For as long as the alarm bells don't ring, the efforts go unseen.

And baby doll, point at the oven all you want, you played a part the moment you turned the dial.

**

Too many judgments.

I'm holding on to too many, and this is why it hurts.

The line between what is the truth, and mere perception is blurring.

And there is noone to blame, except my very own self.

The hardest and silliest fight you'll ever have is with your own self, no?