On the cold grid of VK, where shadows scroll past likes and reposts, your name appeared like a blade between my ribs. Not sharp at first—just a whisper, a message left on read, a late-night voice note laced with static and smoke.
Your Knife, My Heart
"My heart," you might have said, if you ever spoke in metaphors. But you didn't. You spoke in ellipses and accidental likes on old posts. You spoke in the grammar of ghosts—present, then gone, then haunting. your knife my heart vk