Underneath these clouds, the roses must be soaking wet. They were fine and lively, when I put them beside your name,
And the idea of cemeteries, how impersonal a place, after you lived your whole life at home,
But I understand why we adorn, and why all the flowers, as if to say ‘I know that you left me but I am not leaving you’,
I stand here staring empty at a silent tomb, trying to hold my heart in place, heavy and heaving with confusion,
And the only thing I can think of is how I used to bring you cake, and now I can only bring you flowers to your grave.
eclectic book talk 