Death makes the World soft

I died today.
It didn’t look like much. There was no life
flashing in my eyes or bright tunnels
to head towards.
It looked like nothing—it was quiet.
It was quiet, and I couldn’t feel anything
not in my fingers or anywhere
no 
temperature, no pressure. There was a smell
though, and it smelled dusty, and not saw-
dusty either. It was just dirt-dust.
If there was a taste, it would’ve been metallic, not blood-
iron metallic, just metallic. But
there was no taste.

I’m a ghost now, which is neat.
I get to visit the people I loved
but it’s hard to watch them mourn, unable to offer comfort.
And it feels lonely, sometimes,
being just inches from them
while knowing that they are still
decades
away from me.
It seemed like common sense before
that two objects are always the same distance apart
from one to the other
as other to the one
but it’s not true anymore.
I’m so much closer to people than people are to me.

I feel bad for saying it, but really
I want them all to die.
I guess it’s ironic that in life we would die
so that the people we loved could live, and in death
we would murder those same people
just to hold and be held by them again.

I’ll be able to watch my funeral. The veterans here say it can be hard
to see yourself just disappear like that
burned
or buried.
I don’t really believe them, though.
I don’t think I’m really gone, not yet at least.
I just changed shape.
Even in their world, I can see myself.
In their eyes and gaits,
their stutters and shakes,
I’ve become the people I left behind.

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