May death never stop this.
May the reaper not take this away from me. Not yet.
The eulogy would be wordless, silent, a thousand mouths yawning open as smoke pours from their throats.
The ceremony held worldwide, nine billion lives pausing at a millisecond’s notice to wince as a hammer cracks their beating hearts.
Porcelain shards will fall as they open their mouths to talk, scream, yawn. Porcelain shards that fall upwards into the clouds, a fragile mosaic of mourning.
There will be no headstone to weather away as time passes beyond that moment.
There is no need for a burial, for we all carry that handful of dirt, that one rose in our wrinkled hands because the funeral is ours. All of ours.