Entropy

First; the colour leeches out of it, not entirely but enough. Grains of rice contract and bond, becoming a lump. The water gently evaporates from everything, most notably from the thin brown sauce which becomes a flaking stain on the plate and a thin skin on the food it's coated. The meat of the pork chop shrivels slightly into itself and detaches in places from the bone, fat coagulated on its borders.

Second; spots of colour begin to reappear, a light blue with a green hue, or vice versa. The spots blur and spread, seeking each other with uniform growth. They flick out tender tendrils, running rank silk over every surface, binding the rice tighter together and knitting the meat back to its bone.

Third; the food has entirely lost its identity and is a loosely monochrome lump, an ugly tumour attached to the inanimate plate. The meal I cooked is gone as are both the love I cooked it with and the love I cooked it for. Both have been assimilated into the meaningless monochrome of my grey memory.

Entropy is this; everything turns to shit. She's not coming home