That silver flame
subdued all color
into black and white.
Remembering neon paint
and black light nights.
I recall the photos,
your specialty, the old way,
wet work in the darkroom.
We sat sweating to pounding sounds,
any kind of shoes winning out
over slippers and bare feet.
That scent stayed on my hands
long after the pictures developed.
It only cost a dollar or two.
You were a light so brilliant
even black turned to gray before you;
almost everything shone white,
and those Friday and Saturday nights
flew by as weekends would
for the rest of our lives
until an unimaginable retirement
not even expected
down the long and winding road.
Even all the in-between leaned
the way of pure light you brought.
Sometimes we’d recognize each other.
You flickered there, but never lost.
Our hearts skipped beats
and the hard bass lines hit home.
I’m not now.
I burned down on those dark nights
and can remember only
my distinct joy, my desire.