I can lay my head down to rest at night, and I know that the stone is only four minutes away.
I know that, on the exact same street that my window looks out on to, the window above my head when I lay it down at night, you come to them. The graves.

If I got up at four in the morning, I could silently wander down this one street, and within five minutes come to the stone. Black and still, the trees would stop the moonlight from giving anything definition.
And I could lay down here, with my head on any stone I choose, and sleep there instead, knowing that if I got cold and wanted to return to my bed, it would only be four minutes away, up the street that links it all together.

And the ones in the graves, they could do the same. They could leave their place of rest, and come to my room, and sleep in my bed, hungry to lose the coldness that has held them so tightly and for so long.
I would make way, if they chose to do this. I would understand.
Sometimes I want the abscence of warmth, this stifling warmth that fills not just my room, but my every waking moment.
I want to feel what it is like to be cold, to be still, and let everything crawl away from you, repugnant and uninterested. I would take their place, and they could take mine, just for a while.

The wind would follow me to my outdoor sleep, and perhaps the rain would also. But they would be fine as my final companions before that deepest of slumbers, enveloped in peace and perfect stillness.
And I know this could only happen at night, because if I wanted to stay in my new place of sleep, and the others wished to keep my bed, we would need the night to usher us into our new choices.

We would need one night to gently unfold into day, where we could prepare ourselves for whatever is next.
We would be ready for it, I know.
Ready, after just one good night's sleep.


Seven minutes and seven minutes only

You say to yourself, Everything is vapour,
hence why you cannot feel any of it.
You beg, Please let this be the reason -
please let all be vapour (you continue)
and not simply out of my reach,
as punishment,
as a judgement of you.

You say to yourself,
Let this be the regret you deserve made manifest;
the gentle, blinding sun.
The jagged familiar streets (you add)
leading to the cold, familiar seat.
The whiplash effect of the questions
(you continue)
pouring out of those who don't know -
who couldn't possibly understand - that you,
you alone,
here, are poisoned with regret.

You pause, then continue: But at
the very least,
you can learn something from this -
or at least that's the whip
you chastise yourself with.

You say, Now I know why every time someone dies,
someone cries for more time,
If only we'd had more time! (you cry aloud).

You continue, Now I see why
so many see the final event as half-baked, anaemic.
You add, They wish so hard
that they had tried harder before -
sweated, bled, cried,
but never hesitated.

You pause, then say, Now I understand
why the sun never rises over there,
and the moon dangles like this (with a gesture).
I can feel now why the wind
is so punishing (you add quickly),
and the sun so ravaging,
and the cold so entombing.
You pause again, then continue, And I can see why
when we woke up in the middle of the night,
we did it together;
You explain, The first thing of the real world
to fill each other's eyes.

You continue more quickly now, Now I see all of this
but you are gone.
Just cruel moments ago (you add).
You continue, slower, I held you in silence,
straining for the hold to say the words
choked back by unreal pride.
You recall with a smile, You kissed my neck,
the solar winds of breath warming me.
And then you let go (you add, then pause),
and nothing could be said.
You conclude with, You walked away,
then not real.

Then vapour.