August

August closed like a ledger of debts unpaid,
Her name erased where the ink once stayed.
She was my theorem, unsolved and flawed,
A question unanswered, the world overawed.

No statues mark the life she gave,
No monuments stand by her quiet grave.
She was a fresco, half-drawn and blurred,
A truth unfinished, a silenced word.

We sketched our dreams on crumbling walls,
Each plan a whisper, each laugh a call.
Her voice was the spark in an untuned string,
Now lost to the air where echoes cling.

The seasons collapsed when she left that day,
Their rhythm broke, their colors turned gray.
The summer dissolved like salt in rain,
Leaving behind a raw, aching pain.

Her notebooks remain, but her pen is still,
The margins untouched, as if they won’t will
Her thoughts to resurface, her worlds to return—
A fire extinguished where once it burned.

I search for her face in books she read,
In lines she loved, in the words she said.
But all that remains is a name now faint,
A relic too fragile for fate to paint.

Each August returns with its cruel refrain,
A season repeating its endless strain.
Yet even as absence rewrites her part,
I carry her name like a brand on my heart.