The gravestone stands as my admission of guilt, grey like the soul that once resided in my heart, and cold like the sweet lies I said to the person that now rots beneath.
No flowers to give, only a projection of saliva - and as I turn, I can feel her fingers snaking up my legs (the way my fingers used to snake up hers and she was crying that wuss crying nothing to be scared of), and the echo of her last words - 'You told me that you loved me.'
ns 18.68.41.139da2
