You took a continent with you when you died. I visited, recently, reluctantly, your foreign grave, took a too-efficient train to a city that does not speak our names. Your tomb hidden amongst crosses and flowers, and I working to convince the caretaker I’m right
about the remains of a friend hidden right on his morbid map of people who died waiting for friends and visitors. I am, he says, a pilgrim. My foreign kneeling and chanting by your tomb reminds him of a world he lost, a city
filled with lovers, windows, flowers. A city where the dead were permanent, had the right to privacy, the right to constancy. Where a tomb was forever. Where one could stop, once one died, the work of accommodation. Where foreign limbs never captured used graves. I find I
am made of questions and crystals. I find my soles traversing this city that swallowed you in a slow, foreign gulp. I find myself walking right next to a stranger whose laughter died in this city, now hides by the tomb
of a writer dead long before that tomb knew him. We grow into each other, I, this stranger, and these people who’ve died, bound by the cobblestone of this city, the centuries woven into it. We earn the right to befriend these dead, no longer so foreign.
Over time, the stones too grow less foreign, the church of once decapitated kings, a tomb to ideals lost to the return of the right. Tombs full of lipstick and cigarettes, I remember our midnights in another city before you began to die. Before friends died.
I think of the moon on a foreign, bursting shoreline. I excavate dreams buried by your tomb in this city, right where you left them, alive, four years after you died.