Not Charcoal

Hiding at home 
I think in charcoal,
read in charcoal,
play charcoal on the piano.
It is a new language

you refuse to learn. 

Walking in gray rain,
ashes smear into our hair.
You glance back, preparing 

us to run from a stalking,
advancing and retreating,
shadow.

You say soon we must fight, 

face the darkness of charcoal clouds

because colors

are worth dying for.