I hope she dies—

so I can visit her funeral,

stand among the silent faces,

and cry without hiding my tears.

I hope she dies—

so I can see her again,

not in dreams that betray me,

but in a coffin that won’t.

I hope she dies—

so I can carry her once more,

not in my heart where she drifts away,

but on my shoulders, heavy and real.

I hope she dies—

so I can bring her flowers,

the ones she always loved,

and lay them where even silence won’t refuse them.

I hope she dies—

so I can do something for her again,

so I can sit by her,

talk to her,

even if she never replies.

I hope she dies—

because only then

can I be with her

without her running away.

And yet—

as I whisper this prayer in shame,

my chest trembles, my eyes burn,

for what I truly hope is not her death,

but a chance to live with her again.