Jay Gatsby died the same way he lived: consumed. Entombed.
Be it a watery coffin or a Daisy's petals, he was encased. Enamored.
And as the drops of blood mixed into water droplets that shone like
diamonds you could waste a life on, as the phone rang for the
last time, he thought of the green light across the lake, the constant
allure of blooming love, when he could've spent the sunny afternoon
staring into the green of Nick Carraway's eyes, held in something worthy.