We are not the clothes we wear,
nor the names we were given at the start.
We are the salt in our skin
and the strange, wild rhythm of a heart
that refuses to stop, even when it is tired.
Everything else is borrowed.
The gold, the houses, the heavy opinions of men,
they are just leaves on a moving river.
But the way you looked at the sea,
and the way you held the hand of a ghost,
and the silence you kept when the world was loud,
That is the architecture of your soul.
That is the only thing the fire cannot touch.
That is the light you take with you
when the sun finally decides to sleep.