Every time I return to your new home,
it's a chilling affair,
as I roll in on four wheels and a prayer,
my hair stands on end,
and dances in the wind.

Stone cold silence greats me each time,
when I emerge from my car,
and sift my way through the yard,
tromping above the dead,
shoes filled with lead.

It's a stone and granite garden,
marble here and there,
a stiffness in the air,
that hangs right around your feet,
holding you in place like concrete.

I kneel before the dirt and rocks,
and press my hands in deep,
in an attempt to try and feel,
your touch reaching back,
through 6 feet of disconnect.

And I swear I feel your warm touch,
and hear a bad joke whispering in the wind.