Fiction & Ideas

We find peace in cemeteries,

severe paths leading to

shaded plots of land

under hazy streetlight –

take my hand,

tell me you love me,

make me feel it, damnit,

because you look cold and

dead, like the ones buried below,

worms crawling from

your sunken eye-sockets,

my beautiful, dead bride

taking me to the grave

marked with my name.

(Photo by Rade Šaptović on Unsplash)