My name doesn’t say much,
but neither does yours,
and the gravestone waits
to turn us all into ghosts
for bored strangers,
tired of buying flowers
for their dead aunts.

The overgrown grass
convinced that “cemetery”
is a fancy word for garden,
while we scream in death,
only to realize we’re still
as silent as we were in life,
when we were scared
of saying the wrong thing.