They all dissolve.
One, after the other.
In a perfect sort of rhythm.
Not an off beat missed.

As they dissolve,
Into the soft, black, nothingness,
Bubbles shoot to the surface.
Sharp, accusing, stabbing.

The bubbles bring pain.
The urgent air cuts too deep.
They hurt,
And they smell of Rosemary.

The black nothingness is a lie.
It was supposed to be sweet,
It was supposed to be soft,
It was supposed to dull the pain-filled murmurs.

The final pieces dissolve slowly,
Leaving a new, dark, nothing solution.
Everything in numb, empty,
And it smells of Aloe and Bellflower.