I see her back, her legs, and her shiny black shoes <br />The way I saw them <br />For the last time <br />Over and over <br />And there is no color in the movement <br />Or in the air or in the tightening <br />Of my gut, <br />Only the absence of color <br /> <br />Like a baffled moth drawn to darkness, <br />My void was a movie of people shouting <br />With the volume turned off, <br />I heard one silent verse in particular <br />The Stones singing, I see a red door <br />And I want it painted black <br /> <br />A warm voice told me I could emerge, <br />And to see the birth of every second. <br />This seemed impossible. <br />Impossible. <br />Yet as my breathing resumed <br />I remembered something from school, <br />That the combination of all colors is white <br />And I see her black shoes for what they are <br />And I hear her footsteps fade<br /><br />Michael Philips<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-absence-of-black/
