Blessings in demise.

Sheets of empty canvas, untouched sheets of clay
Were laid spread out before me as her body once did.
All five horizons revolved around her soul
As the earth to the sun
Now the air I tasted and breathed has taken a turn

And all I taught her was everything
I know she gave me all that she wore
And now my bitter hands chafe beneath the clouds
Of what was everything.
Oh, the pictures have all been washed in black
tattooed everything

I take a walk outside
I'm surrounded by some kids at play
I can feel their laughter, so why do I sear?
Oh, and twisted thoughts that spin round my head
I'm spinning
I'm spinning
How quick the sun can drop away

And now my bitter hands cradle broken glass
Of what was everything
All the pictures have all been washed in black
tattooed everything

All the love gone bad turned my world to black
Tattooed all I see, all that I am, all I'll be

I know someday you'll have a beautiful life
I know you'll be a sun in somebody else's sky
why can't it be mine

Black was a song for Cole. The painter, photographer. The temper. The presence. The passion of a hundred men and the patience of none. Black was loud and angry, melodic and deep. Black was the hallmark of a band that didn't try so hard, since he didn't like contrived acts. He liked mellow. He liked heartfelt lyrics and painful words. He had a lot of tattoos and he let me go with a fight, and boy, was it a good one, one stacked so unfairly it leaned up against the bars of a jail cell on the other side of town, an incredulous, miserable turn of events that brought his life to a screeching halt and made him a posthumous superstar in our circles, in spite of everything to the contrary.

But Cole loved Black.

Almost as much as he loved Bridget.

I love Black because it is prophetic and biographical and touching, in a sick self-gratifying way. It's a gut-wrenching song of loss. It's so beautiful I have yet to ever make it through the bridge without my eyes stinging.

But Pearl Jam did not play it last night at the show and I'm okay with that too.

Here's your obligatory bad concert photo from the rafters where we snuck in between acts and climbed to the top of the coliseum, and sang until we could no longer speak.