The ink pools at the tip of my pen,  

hesitant, like a life half-lived,  

or a debt unpaid.  

They are waiting—watching—  

their eyes sharp as the edge of inheritance.  

I remember how I combed through her things,  

fingers tracing the seams of coats,  

palms pressing into old books,  

as if the scent of her skin might still linger.  

Did she know I would do this?  

Now they wait for my name to dry on the page,  

for the weight of my words to become gold,  

for my silence to give them claim.  

But my hands still move, my breath still spills—  

This story is not finished.  

What should I leave behind?  

Not the watch I never wore,  

nor the house that never felt like home.  

Not my words—no, they are mine,  

and I will not let them carve me open yet.  

So circle all you want.  

Wait in the shadows of my frailty,  

count my days like coins in your palm.  

I have not yet sung my last song,  

and the will remains unwritten.