It is a tongue,
smeared across the roof.
It is a fist, closed tight—
not in anger, but in grief.

Black is the curve of silk—
a black dress slipped from a chair—
Its soft lines trace a story.
Its elegance lives in withholding,
its meaning hides in what remains untouched.

Black sits in a room with no doors,
filled with unanswered questions.

Black isn’t a void—
it is the soil beneath the seed,
the womb where light is forged.
It is the pause before the stars appear,
where names come into being.

It is the space
where all things begin—
an ache—on the cusp of becoming.