I came to visit you today, laying my head against the crunch of the grass, stretched out, superimposing my body over your memory. Some traditions say if you bind the mouth of the dead, it keeps the spirit from wandering, yet my fingers have pry loose those lacy shackles of ribbon. Drifting shut, my last glimpse the name etched neatly in the course stone, my own. We walk together again.
Old postcards and fading Polaroids flitter by like a flip book, pantomiming life. Memories best forgotten, taken out and examined, through the prism of my warm tears. The smells return dancing on the breeze, the bitter cold embrace of the old ways, of days with no return. Sweet nectar turns bitter, rolling across my tongue, wine from old skins, intoxication clouding the present making old paths glitter alluringly.
We had such good times, the seductress whispers, her breath upon my ear.
Loose soil falls from my fingers, feverishly digging until I wrap on the the solid confines of your sarcophagus. Nails screech against the force of my pry bar, relinquishing their grip, moaning against my desire. Stale air breathes from beyond, cobwebs clinging merciless to me, in symbiotic embrace. There you lay as I left you last, my collection of shame, still bound in the crimson ribbon like steel coins of payment.
Go back, this is not for you any more, live up to what you have already attained, leaks from your pale, cracked lips, though they are not your words.
Bringing you up out of your grave is pointless, oh ash of yesterday.
I am not who I once was.
So with strength, not my own, I cover you again.
Such sweet paradox, in death we find life.
Our lives take on the stories we choose to collect.