Evidence

I found it at the thrift store—

old ceramic bowl,

vermillion glaze, a stain

that refused to fade away.

Even under dust,

the color held its shape.

I picked it up.

The weight was real.

The red was unreal—

aggressive even faded,

refusing mercy.

Uneven at the rim,

worn, but the glaze

still held its blaze.

Like evidence.

Like someone's hands

had made this permanent.

Someone fired it hot

to burn this color in,

and it worked.

It still works.

I bought it.

Washed it clean at home.

The red came back—

not from lack,

but insistence.

Still refusing.

Still refusing to disappear.