GOTH

For Tatania...

Black was your colour.
If not black, then indigo. But black
expressed who you were.
Midnight black. Was it night?
Was it the black of Dracula's cloak?
Black for invisibility in the dark.
Oh yes, how that appealed
to your need for anonymity.

When you had begged and cajoled enough,
our shared apartment was all black. A tomb,
disconcerting at night. The jet-black carpet
with it's fluffy pile and inky depths,
and the curtains - a raven velvet darkness -
sheer nothingness, falling from ceiling to floor.
Pillows and duvets the same. Same
black velvet even tacked to the ceiling.
A sombre tomb. A church crypt - Transylvanian?

Only your face escaped into whiteness.

And outside the window
a passing funeral possession,
a surreal and gloomy scene.
Your eyes glistened - you seemed to revel in misery,
like the Grim Reaper on his rounds. And you adored
black tulips, because they reminded you
of the dark night of the Soul.
Claustrophobia, morbidity, you were
spiritually buried alive.

Floor-length leather coat: a swathe of darkness,
a black shroud.
Your lips and eyes were coal black too.
You delighted in black.
It felt safe, protective, like
being back in the darkness of the womb.
It suited your wounded Soul.

Your every word sounded mysterious,
your East European accent hypnotic.
You'd whisper in my ear, dripping black,
weeping black crucifixes - at least a dozen of them -
and then, sometimes, a silver skull among them.

White would have suited you better. White is healing.
White could have illuminated the tomb
where you'd interred your heart
away from all possibility of further damage.
But white had become your Nemesis,
the demon you'd buried inside you.

In your pit of black you felt safe
from all things white...

like the Albino
                      who once broke your heart.