Black is the colour of the midnight sky when we walk through the forest, the mighty trees towering over us like protective wraiths.
Black is the colour of your raven locks, flowing so elegantly over your shoulders like ink from a fallen well.
Black is the colour of my jelously when you walk, hand in hand, with another; when they embrace you like you belonged there, with them, and not with me. When they embrace you like we used to.
Black is the colour of the evil in your eyes when I confront you about the lies you hide behind like a knight behind his sheild for protection. The truth is out.
Black is the colour of your soul when I look into those eyes that I thought I once knew. They belonged to someone I once thought I could trust my heart with.
Black is the colour of my love. It is decaying like a plant without water, the once beautiful bloomng bud of something wonderful, now a pile of ash on the concrete walls of this cell.
Black is the colour of the hatred and rage in my head, holding me in it's cruel and twisted hands made of thorns. I can't let it go, my love. And it can't let me go.
Black is the colour of your vision when you're lying on the floor, gasping for air as ivory hands wrap around your lithe neck.
Black is the colour of death.