Strolling through the cemetery,
we’re not buying, we’re just
window shopping, casually planning
which stone to carve our vitriol into.
I like the simplicity of white marble
but you prefer the gothic styles, black
and grey swirls reflecting how death
really is – the nothing offered to
everyone involved. So much nothing.
You consider an obelisk, something that
exudes a sense of grandeur you
never quite achieved in life. All
these years we lethargically aspired to
what we thought we should be, but we
never really tried at all – we just idly watched
as our ideal selves hovered vaguely in the
distance. I like to think I aimed for something
but I never had much hand-eye co-ordination.
We kneel in the soil and you scratch
our names into the dirt with a stick.
Illuminated by the moon, this is
the closest we’ll come to death today.