where do words of a dead person go

When you die, where do your words go? Your vocabulary? Your stories, your collected metaphors, your to-be-born ideas and images and the colors you concocted? Your stamped tales and collection of Greek mythology?

Do they become butterflies suspended over your friends’ ears? Do they turn into the tinnitus of your close friends’ brains humming whispers and finishing unfinished songs and symphonies? Do they metamorphose themselves as hints to solving conjectures and unsung tunes? Dropped keys? I miss you my friend.