The Weight Of This Ink

I sat with my words today,

pages scattered like fallen leaves,

and it struck me

this might be all I leave behind.

Ink, not flesh.

Paper, not laughter.

Stories stitched from loneliness,

poems built from the marrow of my grief.

I wonder if someone will find them,

thumb through the lines,

hear the ghost of my voice

pressed between each syllable.

These words carry my breath,

my quiet confessions,

the fragments of me I never showed the world.

They are the evidence that I lived,

that I felt,

that I loved in my own shadowed way.

When I am gone,

no monument will rise for me,

no crowd will whisper my name.

But perhaps one line,

just one,

will cling to someone’s chest

and remind them of the tender weight

of being human.

And that will be enough.