[More of a story/catharsis than an actual poem with a theme, but if you can find a theme, tell me!]
black—too close to lack
to be a comfortable word.
black like your unchallenged hair,
running in waves and rivulets
across your lonely head.
black as in the night
when i ran into streetlamp shadows
and practiced sonnets with the pebbles,
that knew the words as well as you did.
black in the dimple of my pillow,
cupping my tears and scratching my cheeks;
you saw the black of eyelid drapes,
sheltering a sleep some twelve or thirteen miles away,
where you dreamed of yourself and no one else and your beautiful black hair.