I think he said I love you—
or maybe just keep swimming,
those steady words,
like ripples in the dark water
when storms came roaring close.

But sometimes I wish
I could remember exactly,
because silence filled the spaces after—
no words left, no breath left,
just the ache of what wasn’t said.

I wish it had been I’m sorry,
or it’s okay,
something that would’ve let me hold him
without the sting of goodbye
carved into every quiet moment.

He didn’t choose to leave—
not really—
but I wonder if a sudden end
would’ve been easier to carry,
than the slow, cruel drift away,
bedridden and distant,
lost inside a fading light.

I said I love you to Daddy,
soft as a prayer,
but now I can’t say it again
and have him hear—
that final echo stays trapped,
a song that never finds its rest.

So I carry those words—
half spoken, half imagined—
a fragile thread in the silence,
tied to the heart he left behind.