Three pieces of sky tear at the bridge of me. I reflect back wilted weed. The sky sends more pieces. Not cause and effect. I am not me and not someone else. Not rebirth. Redeath.
Twice before I’ve died. Neither time was I reborn. Not as something new. Change isn’t welcome here.
My body crumples and becomes dust motes floating in a single beam of light. The light is not the sun. It’s beyond the sun, something burnt out long before if it was lit. The light melts the dust motes until we are something much smaller. Something not yet named. I call it proatees, but that’s not right so I call it nothing. I am nothing. Many pieces of nothing.
The light fades and we float to the ground on parachutes of carbon stopping just before we hit. We hover. We hang. We glide. We collide. The pieces become one and we return to motes and then a full body. The body is the same as it was before except it hovers above the ground. I feel my fingertips for that familiar sense of dullness. It feels somehow duller than before, a feeling I hope will pass.
Then the pieces of sky come full force and cut the parachutes and my fall is complete. The pain penetrates into every nerve. I urge the pieces of sky to go away. They do.