My gut reaction remains the same
shade of grey I remember finger painting yesterday.
The smears cloak my fingerprints
like manuscripts of the negative.
Sharp enough to break through the holiest of sentiments.
It's night two in the dark alone when I call on the ghosts.
Exercise the demons so I may leave the couch at once and turn the lamp on.
Warm bodies approach- blurred yet familiar- radiating only eyes.
Dull and full of assumptions.
I can't respond.
I reach out and watch as effort manifests as motionless limbs again.
Now, my eyes neither open nor closed, identify nothing.
My hands, palms dripping a simple shade of gloom I've come to embrace, greet my brow.
Grey sweat covers this grey reflection and these paintbrush arms I own just want to get up and live.
In color again.