When I Am Gone

 When I am gone,

let me be forgotten.

If I return in memory,

let no tears fall — not even one.

Don’t reach for my photographs,

don’t read the letters again.

Just leave them tucked away,

like a dream that never woke.

I will not come back —

not in the breeze,

not in a tune,

not in moonlight’s hush.

But when loneliness sits beside you

like a shadow on your chest,

open my poems,

the ones I bled for you.

I live in those words,

in rhythms and quiet breaths,

in every pause

where you once held your breath for me.

If someone else holds your hand someday,

don’t drown in guilt.

I understand —

in the fire of absence,

even a shadow feels like shelter.

Don’t weep for me.

Your tears might reach me,

and I’m too tired to shatter again.

I am no longer flesh,

but a soul tied gently to your voice.

If you must speak of me,

Don’t say: "He is gone."

Say instead:

“He has become a poem.”