walls that breathe for me

When I die, I want it to be perfect. Nestled deep into my linens,

with huge white fluffed up pillows that caress my neck when it slowly goes stiff.

Vintage paper holding the room together with patterns on the wall that breathe timelessness into the time that’s left.

Shadows on the ceiling creep the essence of dim candle-lit peach, widows in the corners peek, in a tasteful prose, they weep.

Portraits of framed people that went before me wait to welcome me.

And of course, a Siamese or perhaps some quiet living thing, seated bedside. Frog and Toad escort me to the yellow brick road.

I desire to use all my senses before I go.

I close my eyes, and take a final sip of water that may possibly turn to wine, when I reach the other side,

And pucker my lips.