If I die, will you come?
Not to save—just to be.
Just to stand in the fog
at the edge of me.
Will you reach out a hand,
cool and bare,
and press it to mine
like you’ve always been there?
Will you whisper my name
as the silence gives way?
Will your breath be the wind
that tells me to stay?
I’ve waited for years
in each shadow I passed,
in the rustle of lace,
in the blades of the grass.
You’ve lived in my art,
in the pause of a sigh,
in the smoke of my wants,
in the need to not try.
So now, at the edge,
with the lake at my thighs,
I ask just one thing—
not with tears. With closed eyes.
If I fall through the dark,
through the silence, the blue…
will you be the last thing
I ever fall to?
Because I’m tired, my ghost.
But I’ll stay for the view.
I’ll die if I must—
if it means I find you.