Scented silence in the void beyond

How does it feel to die?

Is it like vertigo: a sudden tingle through your body and soul followed by one’s limps collapsing, being violently vacuumed packed down to its last speck?

Or is it more the exhaustion felt when seeing that bus disappearing at the horizon: when it’s too late, when you run out of breath, your hooded eyes still fixed on the back lights in disbelieve with a slight guilty relief that you now don’t have to get into the throng of Friday night life and can just go home and curl up in front of the fire.

All will be fine.

What does it look like?

Perhaps ones gaze seeks the edge of the dark purple skies, seeing beyond dark storms and sparkling satellites with a pretense of warm intelligence?

Or is it like looking upwards into the blinding white sky, snowflakes falling without reason tickling your cold cheeks…burning the fragile skin of my teenage pimpled face walking home as I’d try catching them with my tong.

All will be fine.

What does death smell like?

Perhaps it’s like the sweet blossoms that sprout weeks too early through the frosty scentless ground?

Or is it like the smell of dirt, compost and candied leaves, damp and musty after a spring shower…when grandpa turned the earth in nearly perfect lines along the hedges behind the flower patch.