No black is blacker than the darkest night,
Without star or moon,
Or guiding light,
Of love.
And nothing blacker than the empty space,
With no words or touch
Of love’s embrace.

But clinging to the white of hope
That love can be regained,
Until the greyest grey
Of breaking dawn,
The dawning cold of nothing changed
And the losing
Refusing to be forgotten.

For no red is redder than the soft rose petal
That is remembered love,
With no pain sharper
Than its thorn removed,
To leave the drip,
Drip,
Drip
Of crimson blood,
Just waiting for the time to heal.