Not a red heart. Not a black heart. Grey. Like the sky from October to April, like the fog sitting in the hollow at 7am, like the dust on everything within a mile of a coal truck. This is the heart of someone who complains about this state nonstop and would still fistfight a stranger for talking trash about it.
You know the feeling. You left for a better job and came back. You say the roads are terrible and then take the curvy one anyway. You pretend you're over the pepperoni rolls, then eat four in the car. You scream every word of that one highway anthem at 1am with your arm around a guy whose name you don't know. Grey heart energy: complicated, loyal, a little damp.
Built soft enough to live in, with a weight that holds up through porch season, tailgate season, and the eleven months of general grey. Washes well, keeps its shape, and gets more comfortable the longer you refuse to take it off.
