I walk a ghost among the mourners,
plucking stitch
after stitch
into my own burial shroud

—with a rose
tucked into the sleeve

as though one day,
a dedicated love might find itself here

of all things from my childhood comics and story books are what i remember and miss the most

there was a moment in time
when death sat beside me on a park bench
and he had rested his hand on the gap between us

i,

too,

rested my hand there
and brushed my fingers against his

and for a chaste moment
i savoured the warmth of his skin
and intertwined my hand with his

but he stood up

and left

and maybe he knew,

it was for the better.