I have tried to leave my mark–
Pressed my name into the trees,
only for the bark to scar
and swallow my touch.
Spoken into open air,
only for the words to fade
and sink into wind.
Let ink bleed into paper,
only for the page to thin
and crumble to dust.

The world is good at forgetting–
The rivers scatter my reflection,
the mountains shed my step in landslides,
even stars do not pause to mark my loss.
It has watched as I have swirled away
until nothing remained of my shape,
as if to whisper:
you were never really here.

Time is a slow and gentle thief–
Not cruel, not kind,
only certain.

And yet–
Somewhere, the laughter I gave
finds its way back in memory.
Somewhere, the kindness I gave
lives in the hands of another.
And somewhere, the love I gave
spreads unseen beneath the surface–
Like a stone slipping through water,
its ripples never truly gone.