Is that really all I am?
A passing thought,
a memory,
preserved so well,
you needn’t seek any proof
that I am still around?
Do you not need me around?
Do you not want me at all?
When strings are being pulled taut
and you can barely even breathe—
When the night is all you feel and
your palms are cold and dry
and you say you need me alive—
Do you need me alive?
Or is the memory of me
enough
for
you?