When you held me close for the last time

 When you held me close for the last time,

you pressed your hand over my chest.
You said, “I’ll never forget this sound.”

I wish you knew —
you never lost it.

When my heart stopped,
yours took over.
And every beat since then has carried a piece of mine inside it.

That’s what love does —
it transfers.
It learns how to live where it’s needed most.

You may not feel my fur against your skin anymore,
but when your heart races from a memory,
that’s me —
a little spark reminding you I’m near.

Sometimes, when you’re still,
you’ll notice it:
the gentle thump that feels different somehow —
like two hearts overlapping.

That’s the echo of us.
A rhythm that time can’t separate.

So don’t think of love as something that stopped.
Think of it as something that changed homes.

Because I’m here —
not above you, not beyond you —
but within you.
Your laughter. Your tears. Your pulse.

I’m the heartbeat that stays.