Poetry

when i die, i want to be remembered through my poetry. i want pictures and memories and kind words shared amongst my loved ones, but what i want most is for somebody to hold a piece of paper in their hands. i want them to feel it rub against their fingertips as they feel their eyes fixate on the ink. i want them to read the naked truths i’ve poured straight from my heart onto the pages. not much is going to be left of me. nothing timeless anyway. i want this paper to travel for years. for generations. in my sisters purse, on my children’s night stand, in my wife’s back pocket. i want a little piece of me to still remain whole. i want them to be able to remember exactly who i was, from the ink i spilled onto paper, many seasons ago.