Oh god we are so vulnerable, out in the open plains where people go to pray and mourn. Here there is no such thing as time, no such thing as God.

Next to a building of white wood slats, rising upwards, black tipped. Here I can reflect on my own sadness. My own to mourn. If how we met was anything less than bad timing I'd become everything good I've ever come across. But that wasn't how we ended up.

The cut out silhouettes of crows are still a cut out silhouette of ****** in this gray-scale graveyard beside a rusted worn down place of worship I cannot believe in a God so cruel as to let die our hearts or our bodies. All I hear is the wings of crows and the open air for miles around.