"would you leave a note?"

Would you leave a note,

if the thought came not as thunder

but as a small rearrangement

of the furniture inside your chest—

or a shift you almost missed,

the way a room feels different

after someone has opened a window

and walked away.

Would you write anything down,

if the impulse wasn’t a flare

but a quiet reckoning—

the kind of list you make

when you’re not sure

what belongs to you anymore.

Some people imagine a letter

as a final declaration,

but maybe it’s closer

to a misplaced receipt:

a record of something

you once carried,

folded without ceremony,

left in a pocket

you stopped checking.

Or maybe the question itself

is the note—

the way it lingers,

the way it asks

for a witness,

the way it tries

to place a hand

on the moment

before it drifts.

Would you leave a note,

or would you simply

let the air hold it—

a thing left unsaid,

an unaddressed thing,

the small, persistent mark

that stays

even when nothing else does.

.