It sits there quietly
a single black heart
not crying
not shouting
just existing
like grief often does.
Not red
because the love is not simple
not gold
because nothing about this shines
not broken
because something still holds it together
even if no one knows what.
It’s not a song
not a plea
not a promise
just a mark
left behind like ashes
after the fire that built a home
burned down without goodbye.
She didn’t write a caption
she didn’t explain it
she just placed it
beside the day we lost her
and maybe beside the day she lost herself.
And maybe
that tiny symbol
is the only truth she has left
the only piece of us
she couldn’t throw away
when everything else felt too heavy
to hold.
So I watch it.
I see it
the way you stare at headstones
long after the mourners are gone
just to say,
I still remember.
Because part of me
still lives in that black heart
and maybe
part of her
does too.