no orchestra drowning in violins,
no white roses collapsing on hospital tile,
no audience.

only the gradual unbuttoning
of my presence.

je disparais doucement.

first from conversations.
then from photographs.
then from the little rituals —
the kettle breathing at four in the morning,
the bathwater whitening around my knees,
Garfield pressing his cathedral body
against my skull
like a small benevolent god.

even my name
will begin to lose weight.

someone will pronounce it incorrectly
years from now
and the error will remain uncorrected,
floating there
like steam above black coffee.

I think disappearance begins in the feet.

the body understands before the mind does.
before language does.
before the mirrors start withholding you
from yourself.

my footsteps already sound temporary.

hallways no longer memorize me.
doors close too quickly behind my shoulders.
the grocery cashier looks through me
as if I were made of condensation,
of thin winter breath
pressed against cold glass.

and maybe that is mercy.

maybe the earth has always preferred
quiet exits.

the fox lowering itself beneath snow.
the mushroom collapsing overnight
into dark sweetness.
the stars —
those extravagant wounds —
burning for centuries
after they are already gone.

tu comprends?

I do not dream of dying dramatically.
I dream of becoming untraceable.

of leaving my coat on a chair somewhere in October
and never returning for it.

of becoming scent only:
cedarwood, rainwater, old paper,
the smoke of an extinguished match.

of thinning into atmosphere.

and still —

some stubborn fragment of me
keeps clinging to the visible world.

the soft green insistence of June.
the vulgar beauty of supermarkets at dusk.
nettles growing through broken fences.
the indecency of moonlight on rivers.
Garfield purring like distant machinery
that keeps the universe alive another hour.

even now
my body betrays me with attachment.

I keep loving things
at the exact moment
I am trying to leave them.

perhaps that is all a soul is:

a creature standing ankle-deep in frost
whispering
encore un peu,
encore un peu.

Lucija Lotus Mlinarič