when the last leaf falls

When you die, it won’t be like tomorrow. The dawn will hesitate— a pale bruise on the horizon. The wind will hold its breath, and the last leaf will loosen its grip, twisting slowly, like a secret falling through time. Your final breath will sound like paper burning in another room, a whisper curling into ash. The world will lean closer to listen— but it won’t be like tomorrow. Everyone will feel it— the air turning heavy, like glass about to shatter. Birds will fall silent on their wires, and even the clocks will stutter. They’ll taste your absence in the dust, hear your laughter echo in dead hallways, and still, they won’t get it. You were the color in their gray hours, the pulse beneath their noise, and they’ll only notice once the silence spreads. When you die, it won’t be like tomorrow. Sorrow will crawl through the windows, weaving itself through their dreams. The night will bow beneath the weight of you— your name dripping from the stars like something the sky forgot to keep. You’ll linger in the spaces between their words, haunting their warmth, a breath on the back of their necks. They’ll call it memory, but it will be you. When You Die, It Won’t Be Like Tomorrow