Mist crept over the headstones that filled her mouth,
coating the dead languages she kept buried there.
She bathed in vanilla words borrowed from a lover,
but secrets have a way of contaminating porcelain skin.
December offered comfort like ice offers warmth to neighbors,
but she neglected the nightfall in its soliloquy.
I decided to work the graveyard shift tonight. I
spend my nights running, so it’s not as if I would
lose sleep – you took that from me months ago.
I reported to the graveyard at the witching hour.
After you left, I couldn’t bear to be away from
you – so I come here every day, under work’s guise.
The tombs are loud tonight. Piercing wails cut
through the misty air, creating swirls usually seen
in dust kicked up in harsh sunlight.
I passed by where you rest on my rounds. You
reached up from the dirt and tried to grab my
ankle – I ran away as fast as I could.
I would never be fast enough to outrun you.