It’s the quiet kind of death I think about—the one that doesn’t make a sound
no bells ringing, no sirens screaming through a night that’s already dark enough,
just the slow folding of the body into the earth or the air, like a letter folded and tucked away,
like a song played once, then fading into the spaces between the notes.

I imagine it’s not sharp, not sudden,
but a fading out, a dimming light you don’t notice until the room is empty.
The way a phone loses signal when you’re deep inside a tunnel—
you’re still talking, still holding on, but the line’s gone silent
and you don’t realize it until you try to speak and only the echo answers back.

Death is the long pause in a conversation we never finished—
a breath held too long, a story left untold.
It’s the way I sit in my own silence sometimes,
wondering if the world’s moving around me or if I’m already halfway gone,
like a shadow slipping off the wall at dusk.

They say it’s final, but maybe it’s just the start of something else—
a door left cracked, a secret waiting in the wings,
the sound of crickets when the day finally lets go and the night pulls its blanket tight.
I think about the crickets—how their song is a promise and a warning,
how it fills the spaces death leaves behind, humming steady and sure
even when the rest of the world has quieted.

Maybe death is a kind of music too,
not loud and brash, but steady, patient, and waiting
beneath the hum of everyday noise,
like the way your heartbeat keeps time beneath the chaos of your thoughts,
reminding you that even in the fading, you are still alive.

I think about the bodies we leave behind,
the memories, the footprints pressed into dirt and time—
how they become the crickets,
singing soft and low in the corners of someone else’s mind,
reminding them we were here,
that we loved, we hurt, we tried.

And maybe that’s the only kind of immortality we get:
the slow fading not into nothing,
but into the quiet hum of being remembered,
the way crickets sing for no one but everyone,
a sound that is both a goodbye and a hello,
a reminder that death is never truly alone—
it’s just the space where love learned to listen.

It doesn’t matter if you understand it or not,
because death doesn’t ask for permission,
it doesn’t knock, it doesn’t wait for the right time,
it just comes,
and the only thing you can do is let yourself be carried
like a whisper that folds into the wind,
like a song that never really ends,
just changes key and starts again.