Ash lands on my white t-shirt, gray relief in a conversation that’s fast turning black and white. You sip your cup of black coffee; I pour a dash of cream into mine. You puff one of your Reds, I smoke my Lights. We don’t know where to take it from here. You take back your fountain pen (a gift from grandma), an Outkast Vinyl, your apartment keys and purple Colgate 360 power toothbrush; I take my tattered copy of Huxley’s Doors of Perception, navy blue sweatshirt and checkered jockey briefs: relationship residue. Just last week we had so much to say to each other, yelling till our voices turned hoarse. Now the silence sits like a third person on the table. Ying and yang drifted apart, again two incomplete halves. After it all, there’s just black and white, no space in between: no room for gray.