Dear Death,

Your passengers wait patiently for the opportunity to salute the fears which have nourished their souls. Sitting in silence, inches from each other’s backs, imagining what burdens they may have carried.

Our whispers are dry, inhibiting the humid stench of self-deprecation.

Tapping my shoulder is a waste of time. What does one say when hope feels like an impossibility?

Speaking from the past feels like a sin of the future and the only solitude I can afford is the memories of immortal optimism.

This is the failed promise of eternal comfort, even in one’s childish pain.

For here I wait, your forgotten friend and ancestral enemy, Peppa Pig.