The strings hum,
if not the same note,
atleast one among seven
we already know.
The wine tastes the same,
if not better with age,
yet in essence it is the same pulp.
The chef brews the tasty stew,
that lacks a personal touch,
for it is the electronic fire that cooks it.
All seem the same,
nothing changed,
nothing missing,
except you.
For it was not the music
neither the wine,
nor the warm fire,
or the tasty flesh,
that made the moment,
but you.
I sit all alone,
just as i came in,
waiting for the hour,
to return yet alone.
