Making The Black Space Count

We were stopped in front of the water point watching the sun set, like always we always ended up talking about silly things. You'd intertwine your hands with mine and tell me about every little goal in life. I would accept your hand in mine and tell you the same things. 
We'd go on and on, talking about little things that made us.. Well, us.
You thought ranch dressing and cucumbers tasted better in a panini maker than plain grilled cheese, and I thought soup could only ever be eaten with a fork. 
We'd go on and on, with every word becoming closer to knowing each other inside and out, and always always understanding each other. 

Until tonight, July 25 around sun down when my hand gripped yours harder than ever and the tears were real. You told me what was going to happen, not at all a goal but what was bound to happen. Black.
What we are in when we sleep, like a black misty fog that we know we are in but we can never really escape on command. Where we aren't able to control things, everything around us just keeps happening. When we die, that is what is bound to happen and the black fog won't be able to leave, we will be trapped inside it with no more thoughts or goals for the future. No more eating soup with a fork and testing new sandwiches in panini makers, non of it. We won't even have the ability to think or see or dream or anything, it will just be black. 

And this hit me really hard.
Until a few hours later I could admit the one thing that you were so sure about what wrong, entirely wrong. Of course no one is sure of an after life, but there is an after life of a person. The thoughts that they shared, their goals, there sandwiches, they're stories will be forever passed on and linger in the colourful word we live in. Even if we may be stuck after our short lives in a black space, the story of us will live on.