An elephant in the room

An elephant is parked on the leather couch of your living room,

and you’re trying to spot it, far in the forest.

It prefers to stay inside rather run out to you,

because running requires lifting all 4 feet at once.

It has big ears but useful only for fanning, without your words.

It has a huge trunk that waits for you to introduce first.

Its wrinkled skin gets goose bumps with just the thought of your touch.

An elephant is parked on the leather couch of your living room,

silently thinking how you’d call it, post your booming fit of laugh.

Here inside it feels lighter without the sunburn,

but deep inside - the 50 pound heart is getting heavier.

It expects your vague realities to be poured in not less than a gallon.

They make its favourite cup of tea, especially on a hot and dry evening.

Just offer them without any peanuts, as elephants don’t like them.

An elephant is parked on the leather couch of your living room,

hoping to see you before it turns into a stone, into a statue.

While its big wet eyes give a chase to the quarter moon of the night,

the eerie quietness stays and refuses to go away.

Unlike the people who go away.

They always do when they give

a fuck about the damn elephant in the room.