By Ritu Rath
She bought fresh roses every Friday.
They brought the living room to life through Saturday and Sunday.
On weekends, she watched the moon.
Taking notice-
How she remained, beautiful, unaffected,
No deceptions.
Her silvery gleam - moondust
In her glass of wine which she drank with a hunger.
To borrow another’s light,
Unapologetic like the moon.
On weekends, there was life.
Come Monday,
The roses wouldn’t stay.
The dark bloody bits of a weekend well-lived.
On repeat, on repeat.
How many roses could she kill before she called it a weekday?
She bought paper roses the following Friday.
But it was always Friday, Saturday, Sunday -
The rest, a blur of muscle memory
And motifs of dead roses.