Of all my deaths, this is the purest

In keeping with the ulterior plan,

today will be a funeral.

Not invited, but expected,

we will all cry

we will all wear white

we will all feel an amputation.

The rain makes is difficult to see

but the corpse is familiar-

not someone long lost

or a veteran of decades

but your own face in the coffin.

Take note of your keepsakes:

dry leaves, tiny shells,

ticket stubs, cracked mugs,

throw away the heaviest thing in your hand

watch it break when it falls;

it becomes something else.

Grieve it 

and release.

This is a bonfire

and will smell as such.

Light a match and listen

to the scrape and crackle

before casting it out.

Breath with it.

At the right time, everything ignites,

anxious for ransom.

The flesh you see curl and smolder

is not you

but rather something you used to be.

You are the one who watches,

who lives because you let go.

Now, you get to be the ash-

feeding the cool earth and watching the beauty that unfolds

from the death of you.