Black is his eyes.

The colour of his irises you in like a black hole, the gravitational pull too strong to resist. It's his tux, his pants, his tie, his hair. The smell of his cologne, dark and alluring. Black is temptation discarding rationality. It's the camera holding all the fleeting moments. Its all his imperfections, the colour of his soul when he bears it to you. It's the sky when he comes back home, drunk and violent. His punches, his stinging words are all painted black. It's the colour he leaves on your skin, tinted with hues of green and purple. Black is the burnt out end of the cigarette he smokes. It's the colour of her dress. Black is the ashes of all the pictures you took together. It's is his suitcase when he walks out the door. Black is the empty void in your chest where your heart should be. Where he should be.

Black is his eyes when he looks at you for the last time.