cemetery musing

This misty function will never land us past uncertainty, not like the way this cemetery stays put and knows everything.

I felt it when I passed through the gate, terribly aware of my own limbs sprawled all over, that origins, clear or vague, aren’t important here.

I understand those crippled figures, the ones I imagine beneath the safety of the mud, and my heart bleeds for the people they loved, who maybe loved them too. I wonder if they still talk. I wonder if I can smoke here. 

I understand them because I made it there and back with no great achievement, nothing to point at, or any comfort in ownership, because I’ve felt the ache of a greater breakdown. Because I saw them when I swam down.

I owe them, the dead people and whomever loved them, something for this.

Nothing suggests I’ll end up in France, or Alaska, but I will surely end up here or somewhere like it. Instead of panicking, I notice that if I close my eyes between deep breaths, I can feel him grab my shoulder, and I can hear it- beautiful. Dreamy and inconsiderate, I recognize that I am probably in love.

Apricots taste sweeter when I’m late for class, but I feel like a tragedy.

Who will explain this?

When I fold, and my lineage is demanded of me, and it doesn’t matter that I smell like coconuts, who will explain this?