“good morning” says no one as you smile your way out of sleep.
you’re the first to rise in your house.
you’ve always been the first to rise in any house.
with your routine glance outside you immediately resort to defeat.
the world has been primed in a hideous blend of grays and whites,
like the sun finally resolved to give up on revisiting new york for good.
you delicately trace the curvature of your neckline,
reminding yourself absently of ears and scalps
and how warm and strange you are to live.
you catch a glimpse of red cellophane on your floor.
but of course,
the drunken miracle purchase of the evening prior-
a cheap heart shaped box of chocolates.
it’s not february but you think you’re funny.
(somewhere in the back of your mind you relate nonchalant consumption
of russell stover chocolates to both a superiority of traditional love and
your general distaste for capitalist based holidays).
you eye all of the chocolates suspiciously as you lift the lid and pull the box onto your lap.
if only you could tell which one was caramel without having to eat all of the others.
you continually weigh your options until settling for a milk chocolatey looking one.
how much money did you spend last night?
rent’s in few days. you’re looking thin lately. you need to buy makeup remover.
what time is it?
you pull the wet half bitten chocolate from your mouth in disgust.
some strange pinkish orange cream is emerging from it,
which tastes like corn syrup and the inevitable death of our sugar freak youth.
god or the universe or some greater force suddenly tainted the grey clouds with a slight jaundiced haze.

yellow and gray.
it looked like someone rushed to finish a painting they already knew they hated.