Poem: Room

Room
is there room for all the flowers and sunlight
filling everything so full you'd swear there isn't room for breathing anymore.
Let alone dying.
Because in some strange way dying takes up more space than living.
Dying doubles you.  There's your body
lying in the sunlight strewn with
broken flowers and shattered pots and
drip drip dripping water
soaking through your favorite shirt
and you can see it all because you're on the outside now.
Taking up more space than before because now
your body doesn't have you anymore.
And you don't have your body.
So you can watch
the flowers falling and
the water dripping and
the sunlight easing its way into all the crevices between the shadows.
And it all feels so tight, you understand?
All so tight because there isn't enough space
for you and your body and all that sunlight.
It's even tighter than it was a moment ago
when your chest condensed in pain and you thought
nothing could be worse than this.
You were right, and you were wrong.
Nothing could be worse than that--
than dying among the flowers and the sunlight.
But then nothing could be worse than what happens next.
What does happen next?
After the sun goes down and the flowers wilt and brown what happens next?