Broken arms of the rainbow-winged angel
on the clock face ticked mournfully as if
the night ought to be static, moldy, already dead.
She masked herself with double layers of whitening
cream and slices of mango peels from yesterday
lunch. Already she felt the face metamorphosing,
or was it acidifying? An inch of a candle must
have burnt before she tore her torso completely
away from the fragrant single-bed—mango peels
involuntarily continued their non-life-ness on
the recently-swept floor. When she raised a finger
and pretended, half-heartedly, to count the stars
or number of planes flying past, even the crescent
moon knew she failed to fall asleep—how pathetic
to be pitied, she wondered, by an inverted smile
on the far-fetched sky? Tomorrow was going to be
a big day: the funeral of a long-hated friend, an ex.
Was hate greater than love? Or vice versa?