The sun rises as it always does, lulled at first, and then with all the energy it leeched off of Icarus that one time two millennia ago. I rise along with it, wishing I had another Icarus. My sigh is your afterglow. You are unwelcome.
The showerhead laments, over and over, its screeches blooming my migraine. It will be a long day at work, I think to myself. I must buy a new case for my Dunhills, I also think to myself. You are still unwelcome.
The espresso hits the coffee cup, claiming its rightful vessel once more. The dishwasher smells like my best friend whose limbs are still lost, hopeless in their search for the right coffin. You are still unwelcome.
The notifications keep on coming, a barrage of bullets from one unreal world to another. A television ad told me to take a break, so I try to snap my phone in half. I see your ice reflected in the ceramic. You are still unwelcome.
The cereal floats, bright and bland as glitter. I think the green dress will smother the beige in me. I do not tell myself that the plummeting neckline is a timely bait. I silence the echoes of “shallow.” You are still unwelcome.
The floorboard creaks and crawls, its creepers long turned into toothsome residents. I turn the key and stomp my feet on the doormat to know, once again, that your key is gone. The cicadas cheer. You are unwelcome.