Night tends the stove,
chars the hours.
We eat it like licorice,
black lips and tongues.
A distant sun, not our sun,
goes dark in the blink of an eye.
We debate if it was ever there
or an idea that fell out of our heads.
If black is the color of mourning,
so night is its time.
Like children we tick off finger tips
as we recite those things we mourn,
though neither one of us
comes close to tears.
As silence comfortably darkens the room,
we slump into each other.
copyright © 2021 Kenneth P. Gurney