Death Tastes Delicious

Death tastes delicious—

I lick it slow like nightfall fudge,

melting on my molars

while the world forgets my name.

Each evening, I unwrap its foil:

sweet peanut butter hush,

a dismal dormancy

smeared soft on my soul.

It gets stuck in my teeth—

this cheddar-blasted freedom,

orange dust of what was me

before the fading.

They say it's the other side of life,

a coin flipped into a wishing well

where no one listens

but the shadows in the water.

Death is free.

It does not invoice,

only invites:

Come lose yourself.

And so I do—

in reruns, in blinking lights,

in staring long at ceilings

until my eyes forget how to see.

I am dying.

Quietly, colorfully,

like a sunset no one watched.

I chew on old dreams like taffy,

swallow bitter punchlines

from sitcoms that outlived me.

I salt my wounds like rimmed margaritas,

bite into hours like stale bread,

crave endings like burnt crème brûlée.

I feast on the silence,

sip stillness like soup,

lick the plate of my own absence clean—

And God—

doesn't it taste great?