I don't want bouquets for you to remember me by.
Not when I die.
I don't want cards, drenched by the rain, piled high.
Not when I die.

Instead I would like memories, for you to find
So that you'll be free.
Because, they'll taste like old summer wine,
Those remnants of me.

You'll remember me laughing, being so daft in
Dressing up.
You'll remember me spilling, and cleaning (God willing)
My overfull cup.
You'll remember me playing, then once more saying
How much fun I had.
You'll remember me smiling, my half-hearted hiding
But being so glad.
You'll remember me peeking, then giving a squeak when
You caught me and scowled.
You'll remember my pouting, the sun coming out and
The fruit in our mouths.

You'll remember us kissing, my endless wishing
That you could be here.
And perhaps you'll remember that golden September,
My secrets and fears.

No, I don't want bouquets put on my grave.
They would be so alone.
And I don't want them watered by all of your tears.
Mourn, then go home.
Those poor little teddies, that swirl in the eddies
Of grey rain and sorrow.
Don't leave your soul at my grave, love.

It will be brighter tomorrow.