What Waits

I walk between the stones as the light leaves,

my footsteps the only sound that grieves

the quiet here, the accumulated weight

of names and dates that tell me fate

isn't personal—it's just

the thing that happens when the dust

settles.

But my problem still matters.

It sits in my chest, it scatters

my thoughts, it won't let me be

even here, surrounded by the sea

of people who got further gone

than I have.

How small I am.

How small my grief, my damn

small worries, my small rage.

But standing here on this stage

of stone, I feel the weight

of it anyway—my private state

of wanting things to be different.

The headstones grow darker

as the sky empties. I hear

my own breathing, steady,

the sound of someone ready

or not to keep going.