Between Breath and Shadow

We may be dead.

Or maybe not.

No one knows.

Maybe we drift

between thought and shadow,

folding into the world we left behind,

or becoming the pulse

no one can feel but us.

Maybe we imagine the birds,

the rain, the sunlight on skin,

the small bright things we loved alive,

because if we could feel,

we would remember joy too.

Maybe death is just another room

with mirrors we cannot reach,

and we are painting the reflections,

breathing imagined air,

and calling it eternity.

Maybe we speak in silence,

voices soft as the dark,

and no one can hear,

but we hear each other anyway.

Maybe we bleed into thought,

maybe our hearts are echoes,

maybe imagining is the only life left,

the only proof we ever existed.

And maybe that is enough.

Being unseen does not mean we are gone.

Being imagined

is being alive.

Even after we leave.