friday or august

friday is the night

she fell hard in love,

august is the month

she dug up her own grave. 

secret is the poetry

she's writing for him, 

Carta Blanca is the 

Bacardi she kept for long. 

rare is the room

she desires to be in,

black is the colour 

she paints her hands.

sacred is the sleep 

she wishes daily before bed,

dead is the hope 

she tried to revive. 

pale is the reflection 

when she stands in the light,

loss is the touchdown

she yearns before her death. 

trust is the terrible thing

she could never stand by, 

turth is the smoke

she ingests opening her mouth. 

timeless is the treachery

she gets as warm present, 

flawed is the heart 

she has anchored for the world. 

- chetna 🌻