The ashes from a dad’s eighth cigarette the day his father died, then another so he wouldn’t cry.
Static on a television set; I wanted to watch cartoons but everyone was crying in my house.
Also, the same colour as the tie he bought for church a month after, one Sunday.
It was only worn once.
Then tucked away with the memory of my grandpa and his cloudy words.
An oblivion between black white, an unsure state of mind; melancholy.
The writer of this poem.
A rainy fall day, a year later.
The world was still sad.
I spelled it in two different ways. One in pen, one in crayon.
Like losing innocence, being ripped from a childhood home and naivety.
The cat’s fur; curled by my feet in the sweetest of comfort. 
A lover’s eyes; they were actually gold encircled brown irises, but I can’t bring myself to think about them again.
The cancer they eventually found in his lungs; Or they will find, that’s what scares me the most.
Grey.