I buried my child
with no hands to hold mine.
The silence beside me
was louder than any wail.
You said love was forever,
but forever was shorter
than a graveside prayer.
You left me alone
when my heart split open,
when the only thing
that could have saved me
was presence.
That’s who you are.
Not the woman in promises,
not the voice in playlists,
not the mask of “moving on.”
No—
you are the one who ran
when grief grew teeth,
when love turned heavy,
when I needed
not perfection,
just you.
And you’ll carry that.
Not me.