Sorry

Today again she said sorry.

The last time I counted,

It stood at 362.

And that was a decade ago.

The first sorry I remember,

Her lips quivered and the moon

Hid beneath a cloud.

The wind had changed its direction then.

Her eyes had moistened and my heart had skipped a beat.

It was monsoon but it didn't rain that day.

Though the clouds had gathered

To kick up a rare storm.

Everything was forgiven under the passion of the moment.

It happened for a couple hundred of sorries.

With each time, the passing moon looked down upon us and moved passively.

Neither the evening breeze noticed us.

Nor the summer noon left us unscorched.

Sorries now are like the paint peeling from the wall.

The scars of the memories which were untold, unforgiven.

I lost the count of those sorries just like an old man forgets a pair of keys.

Often a sorry now is heard and passed just like a bowl of bland curry is passed.

It has become a ritual which is obsolete.

Still she says sorry, out of habit.

And is forgiven routinely.

We stand at status quo now.

Waiting for another sorry.