color flows

when it's all over and done

I've sat cold awhile for lack of fuel and fire, of flint and flame, and the air is not so warm as that which we breathed once ago. I cannot make light where embers died once, and so endure the cold and darkness of the night, in my mind seeing you only in black and white. But every once in a while, I'm reminded of warm days past, and for the briefest of moments, the embers flicker to life once again. And as the warmth washes over me, the color flows back into my hands...and your cheeks.