I close my eyes. I hold myself adrift. I want to lick all utterances off her cherry lips.

It's not easy being me. Death sentence.

Why is there a sentence at all? Isn't that what comes with Death? An end to a thought. Ending punctuation. Swift execution with the tip of your pencil, the jab of your finger, the closing of your mouth, your mind.

 

I need to shake my head. Loosen up. Exhale. But I can't. Haven't got any lungs because I'm dead. No, not dead inside. Dead all over. My ashes are in the Atlantic.

 

Somehow I linger. Lingering around just for her. And if I had a mouth, it'd be all Cheshire, no cat. Berries between my teeth, dripping.

There's perks. For starters, I can see them, but they can't see me.