Black misses and leaves an agony of seeing something that resides in a shade. Black never hits on target, that target of hope. Black is the absence of hope. If one’s humor is black then it might be bitter, and the taste of bitter is like perfume splashing on the tongue. The black there is still a color. It was just a mistake.
The soft scent of hope laughs at a tongue’s daring enjoying its consumption. It doesn’t turn completely black until all hope is exhausted and the tongue stops trying. Because it can’t. It is black with rigor mortis.
But once hope resigns its contempt it replaces the mute’s tongue with its own. Pink. Vibrant. Pulsing tongue. Filling the void.