The brush strokes of navy blue found upon the Mona Lisa.

I am weeping, sobbing into a tissue that is thrown 

Into a basket. Uneaten food sitting outside the door,

I hear voices of those who care but not the voice I seek out. 

I am a corpse inside the comfort of my bed. It is soft and familiar,

Must I truly wake up? The pitch black of night is when I exit my snug

cave of comfort, finally filling my belly after depriving myself 

Of substance for so long. I am feeling silver, as if I finished second–

The first to lose. 

I must let you go now,

But I will forget you not just as

None have forgotten the Mona Lisa.