I think of the way
breath leaves a body
like closing a book
in the middle of the sentence.
The dead do not correct the story
we tell about them.
Their silence a locked door
we keep knocking on
only to answer ourselves.
Sometimes I wonder
if they want to be remembered at all,
or left in the quiet?
Truth drowns with the body.
what remains,
is only what the living
are brave enough to keep.