They say ashes don’t leave footprints, but i hope mine do. Not for fame— just for proof that i burned with intention. That my leaving had shape. I keep a jar on the shelf with matches i never struck. Felt too close to fate. Too eager to ignite. But some nights, i hold them in my hand just to feel something flammable. What if heaven is a spark? Not a place. Just a flicker you feel for half a second before you dissolve into the breath of something bigger. I want to believe that when i go, i’ll become smoke and find my way into the lungs of someone who remembers what i used to laugh like. Not all goodbyes come with tears. Some come with lighters. With silence. With a sigh that smells like nag champa and closure inside of melted wax grief. So i leave the window open. In case i become something that rises. In case there’s wind to carry me where voices stop but love still echoes. And when they scatter me— let them do it barefoot. So they can feel the heat i left behind in the earth that finally made room for me.