After I leave,
from the very next day
how would all the conversations centered around me go ?
Would they talk of love? Or resentment? Or disappointment?
Will they talk about my luck? Or will they talk about all the things I will be missing out on?
Among my good deeds, choices, and my mistakes, which ones would be deemed worth remembering?
Will they recall what I did all these years? And ponder the intentions? Or will they talk about a wasted future in terms of sheer potential?
What reason will they arrive at for my death?
Drugs? Love? Illness? Money? Life itself?
What would I have been running away from, in their eyes?
Responsibilities? Hard Truth? Failure? Myself?
Will any pair of hands stumble across all the incomplete notes I left stashed beneath my desk,
With all my messages to Mother earth,
With all the masterpieces that I strived to make
With all my sketchy plans to save the world,
meant to be executed once I managed to save myself.
And if not, at least to be heard.
But none containing the purpose as to why I decided my blood needs to flow out instead of stay inside my limbs,
Why I felt scarlet stains looked way better than rosé,
And why, I thought that my unending absence belonged to, and affected me and only me,
And was something only I needed to decide on.
Messages In A Bottle 