this question used to live softly on my tongue
like a line from a poem still half sung
sweet in the way distant memories lie
whispering gently is it better to speak or to die?
I used to think love was patient and kind
a quiet garden the heart could find
a place where longing would slowly untie
where no one would need to ask speak or die
but love arrived like a trembling storm
beautiful, aching, terribly warm
your name learning slowly how to fly
through every silence I tried to deny
I kept my feelings folded away
like letters I feared you would never read someday
each heartbeat asking me softly why
I keep choosing silence instead of reply
because loving you felt fragile and wide
like standing unarmored with nowhere to hide
every glance a question passing by
is it better to speak or to die?
your laughter fell like morning sun
warm enough to undo what I’d become
and suddenly every quiet lie
grew heavy beneath that same old cry
I carried your shadow through every room
through every gentle midnight gloom
through every breath and every sigh
still haunted by speak or die
because yearning is cruel in its quiet art
it grows like ivy around the heart
soft at first then climbing high
until it whispers speak… or die
I imagined your hand inside my own
a fragile future barely shown
a world where courage might finally try
to answer softly speak, not die
but fear is louder than hope can be
and silence clings stubbornly to me
so I stay here beneath the sky
still learning how not to die
and if one day these words escape
if love finally tears this careful shape
it will be because my heart chose to try
to speak
before it dies