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Black Coffee ReviewApocalypse: Special IssueSelf-Quarantine

Isolation’s color bleeds into the hallways of my house

to the street of my town, to the plazas and the bridges and the riverbanks and the parks and the museums’ stairs and all the stop signs.

It paints the chairs and the tables and the drive-through windows and the countertops and the clothes racks and the smiles of my children.

And I can’t decide what the color of isolation is? Blue like my mask? White like my coat? Green like my scrub? What is the smell of isolation? Sterility? Sanitizers? Chloride? Plastic breathing mask? Nasal oxygen tubes? The Advil bottle on my nightstand?

Six feet apart. Rooms apart. What is the shape of isolation? Is it the ache for a hug. For a kiss. Does ache have a shape? Maybe it looks like a crumbled surgical glove thrown in the “Hazardous Materials” bin.

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