one world, one sky, we live, we die

It's warm, but the wind is moving. Our sky hangs perfectly blue, full of cotton wool clouds shaded grey underneath. The cemetery is busy on this Friday, digging graves and filling them and lines of cars and hearses. They've cleared the dead flowers from James' space. Someone left a box of guitar strings. I stood there for a little while and talked to him, because clearly I've lost my goddamn mind. This is not something I would have thought I would do. But here I am, standing on a man's grave and talking to the air. I could do this at home and not in the heat, but I keep going back.