Orange Dust

The quiet kind of bad has come.

My fingers reach, my thoughts are numb.

I see the box, left on the shelf,

a brittle comfort for myself.

It sits so bright, a pale fake sun,

for when the good days are all done.

The cheese puff dust, an orange smear,

on fingertips, holding back fear.

I crunch them down, the hollow sound,

no other comfort can be found.

This artificial, salty treat,

a bitter, lonely, sad defeat.