When I die,
roll my body in a blanket of clouds
so I can forever hold the sun close.

My final resting place will be
as I always dreamed.

Light would shine down,
through me, to scatter
shadows and warmth.

I wanted to be your sunshine,
to be your chandelier,
to be your candle.

I shine for me now,
mostly out of necessity,
because to dim this light
might grant a long-standing wish,
and I don’t know if I’m ready yet.

(I hope you know,
this brightness, pouring
from my chest,
will always, always
give you light.)