The day began late, that one dark Friday,
the color of unease, the too-quiet grey
like the dead-ness in her unloved eyes
and the haze and ashes and goodbyes.
Who knew letters burned so slowly
when great fires and fleeing embers
do not blind when she remembers,
when smoke alarms have long cleared
with the fears and the mourning tears;
Meaningless, the grey remains,
trapped between monochrome days,
she counts her dampened heartbeats--
brisk footsteps in monotone streets.
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