Stay

Stay

It’s not loud, you know.
Death.
No banging fists, no lightning.
Just a knock,
like a neighbour asking
to borrow sugar.
Polite.
Almost shy.

I’ve heard it,

Heard it for weeks now—
soft as the hush you’d make
when you curled into me on stormy nights,
your head small as a teacup
in my lap.

They think I don’t hear it.
They say, Walk more. Eat less. Sit in the sun.
As if light can undo what time has stitched.
As if I can outsmile
what’s coming.

But I don’t tell them,
and I didn’t tell you—
not yet.
Because I saw you dancing in the kitchen,
burning the toast,
laughing like fire.

How could I leave that?

Some mornings
I lie very still,
trying to measure the silence.
But then I hear your voice downstairs,
and I choose again
to stay.

You’ll learn, my love—
one day.
Death doesn’t take you.
You let go.
And sometimes,
you just don’t.
Not while someone still needs you
to stay.