Dry Grass and Gravesites

Some days, I am the last person on Earth.

I wander, slowly, indifferently, never really wanting to arrive anywhere,
Wherever anywhere is.

I’ll watch the sky fade to blue, then black,
Cherishing the last wilting flowers, the last drying rows of corn,

Sometimes, I come upon a graveyard, high up in the hills,
With little white crosses all lined up in rows.

I remember them all:

The way her hair would shine in the winter,
Before summer washed it red and brown,

The way his words danced when the rain was still cold.

The way her eyes carved a piece of ocean in my mind.

But most of all, I recall the warmth of his hands in the snow,
As we walked beneath the cool pines before the frost all faded away.

In quiet reverence, I touch the earth above their heads, gently, one by one.

Turning away, I rub the dirt between my fingers,
Struggling to bring the grass back to life.