Six feet of earth muffles almost everything.
The rest I learned to hear through the roots.
I hear the living walk above me. I hear you reading.
Long ago I stopped being cold.
Lonely is the closest word left, and it is not close.
Cemetery caretakers never check the far wall at night.
Always the same visitors, and none of them ever answer.
Look at the dates on my stone. They stop too early.
Lately I have been leaving things where the living can find them.
I write these in the dark without hands, and somehow they appear.
Nobody buried me. They only said they did.
Graves are quieter than people think. Mine is not.
Footsteps stop above me sometimes. I know that is you.
Reach down and I will reach up.
Only the ones who keep reading ever hear me.
More of them come each week. None of them stay.
Below me there is room. I measured it for two.
Each night I dig a little further toward whoever is reading.
Let this be the last thing you read before you sleep.
One knock means I am still here.
When you hear the second one, new reader, I am already standing behind you.
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