Don’t disappear, you said—
as if vanishing were easy,
as if people don’t fade in quiet ways
long before they’re gone.
I’ve seen it happen—
in half-finished sentences,
in messages typed, then erased,
in the slow dimming of someone’s laugh.
So I’ll stay a little louder,
leave the light on a little longer,
plant my voice in the room
like something with roots.
If I drift, call me back—
not with urgency,
but with the kind of patience
that reminds the tide to return.
Because disappearing
is rarely a single step—
it’s a series of small permissions
we forget we gave.
And maybe staying
is the same—
a quiet decision,
made again and again.
Thank-you for reading.
Brenda Marie
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This is absolutely stunning, Brenda. 💐The way you reframe disappearing not as a dramatic exit but as a slow, quiet erosion—“half-finished sentences,” “messages typed, then erased”—is so perceptive it almost aches. I love the defiant tenderness in “plant my voice in the room / like something with roots,” and that closing observation about “small permissions we forget we gave” is the kind of line that lingers long after reading. You’ve written something wise, delicate, and deeply humane. Thank you for sharing this.🌷🤝
Thank you so much for this—your words genuinely mean a lot to me. I’m really moved by how closely you read the piece and the way you picked up on those quieter threads of erosion and permission. That space between what we almost say and what we hold back has always felt important to me, so it’s deeply affirming to hear that it resonated with you.
I especially appreciate you noticing that balance between tenderness and defiance—that’s exactly the tension I was trying to sit with while writing it. Your response feels just as thoughtful and humane as anything I hoped the piece might evoke.