Echoes

When I die, time will loosen its grip on my throat.
The clocks will keep moving but none of them will be right anymore.
My body will become a quiet argument
Flesh negotiating with earth
My bones learning the language of roots and each rib a question the soil answers slowly.
When I die my memories will spill like overturned ink.
Faces will blur into weather, names will fade into gestures and love will remain as a bruise
that never learned how to heal.
Bury me without ceremony.
I have already rehearsed grief in private,
paced its rooms at night and memorized the sound of absence breathing beside me in bed.
Do not say I am at peace. Peace never wanted me.
Say instead that I am finally honest.
No masks left to feed and no mirrors left to negotiate with.
When I die I will return as pressure
The weight in your chest at 2 a.m.
The sudden urge to call someone you promised yourself you were over.
If you find yourself crying for no clear reason that is me remembering you back.
If your hands shake while holding joy that is me warning you how fragile it is.
When I die, leave the door slightly open.
Not for resurrection but for echo.
I have always lived in echoes and I would like to die the same way.