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Do not search for me.

I am not here, nor anywhere you might think to look.

I am the seed cast into a wind without destination,

A fragment of breath dissolving into an air too vast to hold me.

Do you see the dandelion, trembling in the desert’s unrelenting sigh?

Its fragile crown is a map of places it will never belong,

A constellation of possibilities too far away to name.

That is all I ever was.

Worry not.

Worry is a moth,

Its wings torn and threadbare as it feasts

On the fabric of silence you try to keep whole.

Let it gnaw until nothing remains,

Until there is only the thin murmur of what once was,

Carried like smoke through a house abandoned by sound.

You wonder if anything can truly grow here,

In this barren expanse where even shadows hesitate to linger.

If pain can unfurl into petals of soft, reluctant beauty.

If silence can harden into the roots of a tree,

Its gnarled branches clawing at a sky

That has forgotten how to answer.

And yet, the desert does not mourn its emptiness.

It waits, as it always has,

Its stillness a reflection of the things we refuse to say.

This is not goodbye.

Not truly.

It is merely the unraveling of a thread too thin to hold,

The slow collapse of a clock with broken hands.

Time spirals inward,

And I step softly into the hollow between its breaths.

Not lost. Not gone.

Only misplaced,

Like a word forgotten mid-sentence,

Like a star too dim to find its way back into the heavens.

Do not pray for me.

Prayers are only echoes folded into the stillness,

Whispers scattering like brittle leaves

Across the endless, unlistening expanse.

Do not hold to the shape of what I was.

Memory is a house with crumbling walls,

Its foundation weakened by the weight of ghosts.

Pack your grief into a suitcase of stone.

Throw it into the river that runs backward,

Letting its heaviness sink into the silt,

Where even light will not follow.

Perhaps you will feel the absence,

Not as a wound, but as a shadow that shifts with the sun.

Perhaps, one day, the desert will bloom.

Life will emerge from the smallest seed,

Carried by the same indifferent wind that took me.

But even then,

You must not linger where I once stood.

The soil was never mine,

The sky never curved to my name.

Forget me.

Forget the way the stars folded themselves around the night,

The way love once hummed like a quiet song inside your ribs.

Forget the shape of what we were.

Even the universe forgets its beginnings—

Its stars burn out, its edges fade,

And I am no more than a whisper,

A sigh unraveling into the unending.

Do not search for me.

Do not hold this as an ending.

It is only the space where roots failed to take,

Where petals trembled but never fell.

And somewhere, in the vastness of it all,

The desert will remember itself,

The wind will carry on,

And you will learn,

As all things do,

To bloom again.