Leaves.

Dead leaves lie under the tree.
Breeze.
The leaves move with the wind.
They suddenly have life.
A person. Me.
The leaves crawl closer to me.
Encircle me.
They slowly travel up, covering me.
I no longer can see.
The feel of dry, dead leaves on my lips.
Suffocating.
The smell.
Is the last thing that I remember.