Where the dead lingers….

Do not stand at my grave with flowers,

for the dead do not bloom.

Do not whisper my name in sorrow,

for the echoes do not return.

Instead, listen to the wind between the trees,

where I have left my breath.

Trace the dust along your windowsill,

where my touch still lingers.

I am gone, yes—

but only from your sight.

Close your eyes,

and I am there.

Sit still,

and hear the places,

where the dead

lingers inside.