Cornflake, or somewhere along that hue

This morning, I watched the sky turn from black, to indigo, to sienna-tinged, to powder-blue. Along the lines, I remember thinking it was a bit dark for 5 o'clock, then quickly forgot about it as Miles Davis started playing in the background. I was glad that I remembered to look outside. Because I'm writing again, I'm once more aware of things, my senses alert to my surroundings, my psyche alive with the rest of me. But I'm sure I would edit that line out, mentally, once I'm out of here. The coffee waits. Let it wait.                                                                                                                                       I am seriously starting to pine for my books; been lately wondering if I'll ever get them back again. True, then, that the things that matter to us, that we've loved all our lives--or the most significant parts of it--always come back to haunt us. Notebooks, pens that were loved and clutched and written with, coffee mugs, old shirts, books, people, years. Irrevocably lost, but whose presence we feel, even as we go on with the day-to-day, scrolling through playlists, tinkering with our messes, mending tiny holes, tearing at candy wrappers, walking home. But, books. We forget, remember, then soon wonder.                                                                                                                                                          But the sky's a golden patch right now, from my window. And I remember picturing the sun's rays slanting snugly on my shelves.