Cold Ground at Midnight

The fog clung to the gravestones,

a slow breath ghosting over cold marble.

I walked between names carved smooth by rain,

feet barely making a sound on the soft earth.

Headstones leaned like tired ghosts

whispering things I couldn’t hear.

The ground held its weight, heavy and black,

a quiet so thick it swallowed the streetlamp’s buzz.

I traced a cracked cross with a fingertip,

wondering if the dead knew they were forgotten,

if they turned in the dark like old regrets,

bent toward the thick, swallowing night.

The fog pressed in, an endless ocean

where nothing moves but shadows

and the chill under my skin

that feels like coming home.