When I am gone, do not search for me in graves or in the echoes of my name. I will be elsewhere, woven into sentences unfinished, resting where honesty dared to speak. Look for me in the pauses between sentences, in the ache that arrives without explanation. I scattered myself in quiet places between lines no one lingered on, truths softened into poetry so they wouldn’t hurt too loudly, so loving me would feel like discovery. If you find me there, do not mourn what you missed. Just sit with the quiet recognition, the soft grief of almost, the tenderness of too late. Let it be enough that for one brief moment you held my soul in your hands and thought, 𝐼 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑑 ℎ𝑒𝑟.