Untitled Prose

Aged wood cautiously cradles the detritus of my day— cookie crumbles, coffee residue, and blissful rumbles from a mound of cat. I call these, Newtonian Days: the kind that leave a hangover when the road no longer jettisons each moment skyward, because tomorrow can go no higher. The sun rises, and so with it, my eyelids. Lashes unveil what is viscerally evident: you left. Sometime in the night the gravity pull, which I cannot harness, took you from me. My lighter clicks and the cigarette’s smoke ascends, preceding the ashen cherry’s careless fall toward yesterday's remains.