They say black is mourning—
a shade stitched in grief
the colour of farewells
and silence beneath.
but they forget—
black was the first kiss of the universe,
the cradle where stars
learned how to burn.

Black is the ink
that wrote the letters
he never sent—
confessions sealed
in a drawer of—
What-Ifs and
Could-Have-Beens.
Black is the bruise,
leaving an imprint to the heart
the forgotten piano note
that still lingers in her ears.

But it is also the night sky
that held her darkest secret
on her childhood diary
the cold coal that once was fire
and the shadow that stayed
when everyone else left.
Black does not beg to be loved
It simply is beautiful in its defiance
Romantic in its sorrow—
A silence that sings
And in its depths
we find the truth—

That even the darkest—
can still be graceful.
And still—
be worth
remembering.


Erennwrites