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I leave this word to you, it's in my will,
I'd like to think of it curled inside your mouth
and when you go to speak, my absence breathes
a cloud of warm transparent air that still
resembles what I used to be. You tell
me to your hand. I warm your palm. My truth
is anything you choose to tar me with,
believe that I'm a lie, that's fine as well,
or take my other side, my deepest silence
the waiting, empty headed, for what's inclined
to stay between the lines when nothing written
is destined to remain just a suggestion.
Perhaps this word was never mind to give
at all, but just an echo of your own intention.




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