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| You are standing on my grave. . . I can feel the weight of your presence. It is hot down here and I fear that I am suffocating. There is the stickiness of sweat against my flesh. The musty staleness of dirt in my throat. I smell nothing but damp leaves and earthworms and the crisp acrid odor of smoke. There is an angel on my grave. I can feel the weight of her presence. I hear the fluttering of her woolen wings. She is calling to the stars for me. . . And I am waiting for the moon again, when light will fade and I can emerge and bathe in the black waters of twilight. |
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