Legacy.

On my notebook, nestled in the corner
among glued-on stars, are the words
second law of thermodynamics.

It means, literally, that entropy always increases.
It implies that one day, the very last star will run out of
nuclear fuel and everything, anything,
will cease to exist.

I chose to have those words there as a
reminder of my impermanence,
that simple scientific law
turns the pages back to sun-drinking trees in my hands, my
hands back to dust.

What I’m trying to say is I don’t need a legacy.

I don’t need my name up in lights.
But I would like it in the wind and seasalt and dandelions, so
burn me when I die.

I don’t need my name to go down in history.
the infinity before and the infinity after anyone said it
will all be the same to me.

Legacy.
What a distracting concept.

Don’t ever let me live my present for some else’s
future.