He carried this name for a time —
a pattern, a frequency,
a particular arrangement of light
that answered when called.
It is no longer transmitting.
What ran down here was not a body
but a signal. And every moment
it held its shape
is still there — fixed, permanent,
happening and happened
at its coordinate in time.
He and those who knew him
will always be back then.
The residue fades slowly.
An echo still lingering
in rooms it no longer occupies.
But even ghosts are subject to entropy —
even this will run down.
And if before all this he was only light —
formless, unfeeling, infinite —
and was offered the whole weight of it,
every ache and impossible joy,
the entire brief archive of being here:
he would have said yes.
Whatever comes next
will not carry this name.
The matter of the old universe
does not disappear.
It only stops being
what it was before.
