I walk where the city loosens its grip,
where streetlights thin into a pale confession.
The gate exhales behind me.
Even my footsteps seem unsure
of their right to exist.
Marble shoulders lean toward the moon.
Names shine briefly, then retreat.
I read them like unopened letters,
each date a locked room
I will never enter.
My thoughts wander ahead of me,
barefoot, reckless.
They ask why I am still here
when so many have mastered
the art of leaving.
The wind rehearses apologies in the trees.
Dry leaves scrape the paths
like unfinished sentences.
I answer no one,
yet everything listens.
Loneliness does not hurt here—
it sits beside me, well-mannered,
folds its hands on cold stone.
We share the silence
as if it were inherited.
Somewhere between two graves
I almost believe I am transparent,
a passing idea, a breath the night forgot
to take back.
When I turn toward home,
the moon follows at a distance.
Behind me, the dead keep their secrets.
Ahead of me, my life waits—
quiet, unlit,
still willing to be walked into.
Your writing here perfectly reflects the peace and sanctuary found in a cemetery under the velvet night. Soulful and cathartic, I enjoyed this immensely and will return to read it when a quiet moment is needed again. For now, back to the world again. Excellent write!
Clay
Thanks you 😊