If I could only leave a singular legacy, one thing to remember me by, a farewell of sorts it would be a book. A long book with all my favourite most sincere works collected onto precious pages, un-gilt, no fancy bits because I’m not high maintenance. Just a black leather jacket. A strong spine. That’s all.
I want people to recall and feel afresh how hard I loved, how deeply I fell amongst trash and treasure, how courageous I was with my honesty.
How my words resonated with soft accent through cavernous minds.
For I am unafraid. I am woman, hear me speak with the romance of golden honey on my tongue, dripping monologues of love and dreams.
Destinations I was yet to reach until finally they enveloped me whole and choked on my sacharrine, tender charm. With bells on my ankles and roses in hand, vintage lace cascading over my bare skin; unafraid and unashamed of my nakedness. Clove and cherry kissing your nose, dandelion eleven:eleven wishes parading empty streets and lips stained more perfectly pink than guava or blossom soaked Japan in the springtime.
I whisper words to a page, my heart beating in time with my hand. Racing then easing to a slow steady beat, slow steady words and script dancing from my mind through my fingers.
My only harrowing need is to leave behind these words to be read, re-read and cherished. I’m not sure why but it feels detrimental. I need to be highlighted and underlined, I need notes in my margins and I need to be quoted just as I can quote him.
I wish for a death resume listing:
Writer and creative
Don’t worry about writing me an obituary unless you have a way with words, unless you write it in the stars.
Please write me an obituary.