The flowers are wilted but give off some color still. The morning is damp, the first time in 50 days. You can hear the earth drink, the birds cry, the gutters trickle. All is still, a bough dips under the weight of it. Petals drop like tears, like party favors.
When it is my time let me fade into the couch and go slowly like a leaf curling in on itself, unnoticed, indistinct. Not the drama of going out in a burst, but to fade out like a long sound cue. No credits, take the house lights up slow.