Black

Black

It’s the color of three o’clock,

when only the insomniacs are up

surfing the abyss of the web

musing over tints in Johnny Depp’s goatee,

and shades of sleek party dresses and

shiny pumps

made for a Hollywood runway,

not this lonely shade of night.

It’s the color of permanent marker –

The smell that reminds you of

The empty house

after the yard sale posters

are stuffed into the garbage

along with memories

of the friends you are

leaving behind.

It’s the feeling between

“Time of death: six fifty-seven, Tuesday”

And the burnt funeral potatoes

That were supposed to somehow

Soften the fact that your morning

Was spent in a blur at her graveside

And you are suddenly not afraid of ghosts

But longing for a glimpse of one.

It’s the silence

Of a blank Christmas morning

When Santa’s boots only

Remind you of coal

And all of the well wishes in the world

Only leave an empty hole

That fills you with voiceless sobbing

And the Color of Black.