case numbers rise like geometry etched into glass door frames
and we all try to avoid the turquoise gate with jagged patterns
press conferences with pink carpets are like tapestry on a blue ceiling
we now grocery shop in aisles of abandoned leather shoes and chappals
how the rain smells of a saturated rose water from the funeral homes
no more cranberry lipstick stains upon white cups, these days
we fear expiring like after a glass plate of sukrit, with yellow tinted lips
we’ve never read the holy du’ua so many times on the north shore
pray for the ones who wore their worst black suits and navy socks
pray that the women have enough gold in their safety deposit boxes
we somehow believe that its worth can cure this disease.
