Dark Without Light

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Dark Without Light

When I say, I wish you were here,

does that make you present?

Every time I close my eyes light flashes,

bright spots in the dark. I have never

known true dark. As a child, I used to mix all the colors

— brown, indigo, fuchsia, orange, lime green, violet —

swirling them into a murky mess 

to fabricate the approximation of black.

But contrary to a five year old's expectations

white is all colors. Black is empty.

You cannot mix paint to produce

absence. I have never known

true absence. You are not even a ghost, just distant,

just apart of the fabric of the universe

outside of the reach of my peripheral vision,

just a vibrant flare on the inside of my eyelid.

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Note: This poem was inspired by a prompt offered by RenCirdan, who wrote, "What is black if there is no white to compare it to. If bad is only bad when compared to good is there really any good or bad at all. Or are there simply just shades of grey that aren't totaly good or bad."

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