Despite what they say,
I will never stop writing.

I sat in our tree-
the same crooked branch,
the same shadowed boughs-
and wondered,
'what would you think of me now?'

The bark still remembers our hands.
I pressed mine there,
as if it might answer,
as if it might say your name
the way I still do.

I have become someone
you never met-
held, loved, surrounded-
and still reaching back for you.

In the quiet between their voices,
I think of you,
and pray-
foolishly, stubbornly-
that you would be proud.


Penned by my hand on Gosday, the 21st of Dharos, in the year 18 AC.