Months to rust in salted neglect
coating my hand, a knob I knew well
now crunches in my grip.
The drag of hot air too habitual to appreciate;
too present to ignore.
I knock, knowing no welcome awaits me.
Don’t close your eyes darling,
night is yet to come,
but the sun burns my palm.
Are you inclined to rush the funeral proceedings?
To me, it doesn’t much matter;
I am buoyant in the dirt
and cling to what is buried.
submitted by /u/buzzbeeD2
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