They make their way through the crowd.

Beneath the sky amber in the last sun
the retrieved spark steers their feet
to explore the gorgeously festive town
smelling of discovery at every turn
of people and shops and sellers
and food tempting to be tasted
women too lovely not to be noticed
houses illuminated like light is free
flying as in a dream long in the coming
but arrived too glorious for any regret.

The younger when a few paces ahead
stops so the other could catch up
always remembering the six years
matter much in the count of speed.

The sky above grows older and paler
but their blistered feet feel no pain
from the four hours of rewinding years
glistening as night dew in their eyes.

As the leaves fall
I lift myself up
To replace its abundant emptiness.

For the world has turned pale
Since the color returned to you
For I have become an empty book
Since I have been read and used
For I have been washed away
When the river of musings
Have dried up from
A storm of old stories of
Nothing new
That's never been told

Still
I'd rather be the white maple
Of short lived pleasant surprises
Of a kind of soul you never knew
Than the anticipated
Colorful few
Among
The vast insignificance
Of an all brilliant view.

You listen to the rhythm and blues of my sorrows,
Just to sing and dance and drown yours away.
You're the poem that I will never write
because the 26 letters and a few punctuations in the English language will never be enough to do your beauty or the magnitude of my affection justice.

Ours is black love, I love black love.
Because much like the black(w)hole,
it is strong enough to keep entire galaxies in its orbit.