I think I can paint this world for you now. From decadence and disorderly life to death and blank slates. Something I own, expressed dearfully to you as if I have always owned it. Perhaps remembered by no one in the end, but for now, maybe even just a glimpse of light from the murk and more, just to prove it can exist. even if it fades within the hour.

Sincerly,
       Rosier.

Dear Death,

Light pours among the street from a stone vase, liquid crystal kicking against the feet of lamposts and buildings, shallow blanket, the blood of clouds, diamond colored, spread whispering secrets to the ground, filling every path and walkway. Gifting forgiveness to the crudity of pavement and stones. 


Pink petals thrown along the surface by giants, slipping through fingers of wind, lifted away from my eyes and taken back to the water like an invisible game you win merely by a glimpse. 


Light shining off the water and collecting among the horns of her stooped figure, crown or halo still not so deathly bright as she. Sitting on my stomach, tiny hands plunged forearm deep wrapped firmly around my throat, water in my nostrils, swirling and bracing my teeth, crushing my eyes, stealing from me your face. 


Rasping I whisper deliriously, "Please kill me. Kill me slowly so I'll die when it's time. Choke me while my lungs are empty so I might pretend I am drowning in you. 


Some of us die in the arms of a loved one. 


And a lucky few get their life taken by what they love.


Goodbyes so Pretty.