I lie paralyzed on the blue loveseat
in the blue-walled study,
trapped in Picasso’s blue period.
We’re renovating, walls an empty gallery,
hangers still nailed in wood,
crucifixes without a Christ.
The Old Guitarist: deep blue permeates the canvas,
a lighter shade echoes into white hair
and the pale skin on his fingers, hands, right leg, and left ankle.
Subtle accents of sky blue extend beyond the angular
(El Greco-reminiscent) body and clothes,
emerge in the background.
On the right, a blue-black background,
evokes a deeper despair, the backdrop
of the contorted guitarist’s music.
I flee the all-pervasive blue tonality of my study,
trudge to the master bathroom, turn on the shower,
let the water warm over my hand,
turn it off with the firm twist of my wrist.
I consider making breakfast — scrambled eggs and bacon.
But I’m not in the mood for sustenance.
I would rather starve the demons inside me.