Grey Days, Graveside

Rain and cold
seem given greatly
to burying acquaintances
old.

Huddled scoffing outside
the service,
storm-of-the-century cigarettes
streaming venom
spitting sorrow,
our muscles tense,
ready for the break
we’re still swearing
        won’t come.

I’ve grown tired of standing
hand outstretched
as a child grasping at
a running tap.
So it will be me to make
the call this time:
a quiet “Hey… I don’t know
if you’ve heard,”

But then again with friends
once whichever spirit tends
has flown,
and I've exhausted my attempts
to own,
it’s always
“parting is such sweet nada.”

I do look forward
to nodding politely
when I see your headstone
running errands
about town.
My ears will ache
at the dreadful sound
of “We never weren’t apart.”
“At least,”
we comfort ourselves,
“the stars we saw
were dead from
the start.”

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/4eb945/we_were_different/
https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/4e3asr/post_argument/