Cemetery Holds The Living

Hairline chasm threads cobweb white through obsidian— wrapped around carved names once warm on living tongues. Those who lived visit with heads down, pretending it’s superstition— not guilt. not memory. not fear of love ending abruptly in a plot of land, a handful of dates. So they leave behind flowers— a sign: I came. A silence follows them home— petals bruised beneath their steps.