august

summer’s soles trampled
wet on my skin. every

drink hissed at me in the glass, 
my mind cellophaning 

thoughts of anyone
to touch. edging

the cold coin of 
pain silting

in my body
is a possibility 

that this august will not be 
as scorned; clouds will

filament into needles, morning
croissants shedding

their dandruff; coffee will sit in
pressed patience after work & 

perhaps this year if one permits,
i may let the ice melt 

a little, in a 
caramel scoop of sun.

Vamika Sinha is co-founder and editor-in-chief of Postscript Magazine. She likes noodles, cinema, coffee, and jazz. Follow her on Instagram and Twitter: @vamika_s

Image courtesy of the author