HOW TO LEAVE WITHOUT A TRACE

1. Begin by loosening your name.

Let it drip from your mouth

until it no longer clings to your teeth.

Do not try to catch it.

2. Wear only what the wind can carry.

Buttons are anchors; undo them.

Zippers are fences; break their teeth.

3. Step backward through your own footprints.

Do not look over your shoulder.

The eyes will want to follow—

leave them.

4. Find a place where sound

unravels into air—

under pine boughs,

between the hush of moth wings.

Wait there until language forgets you.

5. Fold your shadow in half,

tuck it into the lining of a cloud.

The world will not notice the absence,

but you will feel lighter.

6. Keep walking until your body

becomes a rumor—

the faint scent of rain on stone,

a ripple where nothing entered the water.

7. When you reach the edge

(every place has one, though

it may wear a different name),

close your eyes.

8. Step once, twice—

let the ground choose

whether to catch you

or let you fall.

9. If someone calls,

do not answer.

Even the wind will ask for you.

10. Continue until there is nothing left

to mark the space you filled—

until the guide you are holding

begins to fade,

line by line,

as you read.