I love you

I still sit on the park bench where you once fed the birds,

Where your laugh carried louder than the rustling leaves,

I look for you in the flutter of wings, in the empty space beside me.

The last time I saw you here… your eyes were tired,

You tried to smile, but it didn’t reach the way it used to.

Stop,

That’s not how I want to see you.

I want to remember the way you ran after kites with me,

The way you clapped when I finally learned to ride a bike,

Not the silence that came when your breath grew thin.

STOP.

I remember your hands—warm, calloused, steady—

Holding mine when I thought the world was too heavy.

I remember you teaching me the names of trees,

Telling me each had a story if I only listened.

I remember crying into your jacket, the fabric stiff with years of use,

And the smell of coffee that always lingered on it.

NO.

I remember the birthday cards with doodles inside,

The corny jokes that made no one laugh but me,

The way you saved the crust of your sandwich because I loved it.

I remember the map you drew of the stars, taped to my wall,

And how you said, ‘When I’m gone, just look up. I’ll be there.’

I love you,

Not as a body that faded,

But as the laughter that still echoes,

The warmth that still lingers,

The voice that still whispers when I’m lost,

I love you.