Hello, four walled cedar room
encased with dirt and idle worms.
A place for quiet;
the last great march to victory.

The tag on your toe will be the  only remaining mark
of true identity, lest someone you once loved
possibly loved you in return
enough  to claim a vacant version
of yourself.
Most will lament to the former you
a select few will only feel ****** and slather pity
if only only for a moment
over spritzer and finger foods.
They can't possibly comprehend that
the exit was brilliant beyond words; that your chalk
outline was significantly different. Than the others.
No one can fathom what you
must have gone through
to get to this point.
The careful consideration that went into
planning such an exit. How to anticipate their
grief, or the planning that goes in to remedy that.
We can only assume the recently dead
revel in the envisage of how strange it is to watch
the artful way
that others fall apart around you.