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.
dusted words and
sealed memories,
but still the obsidian
counts
new leaves on the banyan trees.
they leave behind flowers—
a sigh: I came.
a silence follows them home—
petals bruised beneath their steps.
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