The setting sun on your eyelids gives the world a hue like the inside of a cantaloupe, and that hue is the world. No songs here of love or light or leaving, only that color sleeping lightly in a hammock lashed with warmth. This is the feeling I think you will feel when you pass away. When I die, trumpets will announce my disappearance. The mourning will go on for three weeks, with everyone in the world wearing black or gray. It will be cold in the world, and winter will come early. No one will speak. Language will be tilled under with my bones, when the spring comes, finally, red and already exhausted. The sun will stay low in the sky from a forgotten shame. I will not forget you. I will look for you in the tide pools of fire, but I will not find you. I will seek you out in the deserts that will be the entire world, all thirst bleached-white, but you will not be there. You who died in silence will be in a silent garden the color of a cantaloupe. I will be deafened by the sound of my passing until the mountains burst open and hell runs out of its closet, screaming, catching the world on fire.