not of the distance behind us,
not of this day anymore,
the streets rumble and squeal,
echoing in the cemetery silhouettes,
our feet crunching through the mulch
as our hands inch closer and closer
and our urges grow more devious
farther from the city we get,
to some beyond they don't know exists,
as night falls, we're not of this time anymore,
seeking the remains of Luna French,
to whom Death came like a grinning buffoon,
her body spread everywhere, they said,
a tale we would never know to be true or not,
as the night latched our limbs together
and into each other we went,
not of this world anymore.