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  • What is this shade of sadness called? It is not silver-white, like the oblivion of a snowstorm, when you stand against the window, your palms against the glass. It is not gray-green, like a redwood forest on a fog-smothering day, when you walk alone on a trail with no one, just your longing to dissipate into something softer. Nor is it ash-yellow, like the hills of Marin, after the spring rain have faded and the wildflowers are gone, when what remains is only a memory of succulence.

    Perhaps it is not a color but a geography. Like a derelict corner where hookers and hobos hide, with the smell of urine, with used syringes scattered everywhere, remnants of pleasure, fast and disposable.

    Perhaps it is more like an odor. The post-coital odor of lust. The soiled linen. The fetid after-taste.

    Perhaps it is like a sound. The footsteps of your lover leaving. The clamming of a door that will never open again.

    I am not sure how to name it. I know that it can arrive late at night like an unwelcome guest who never leaves.

    And so here it is. Here I am.
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