Wearing our Sunday best on a Tuesday
afternoon. Walking on the cobbles, tripping
on words kept under wraps, dark day
comes and never goes. Stay for a year
never noticeably gone. Sleeping
but not breathing.
I have played with the idea of morning/mourning a few times. I always find that funerals are strange because of the normality that surrounds them. The irreversible feeling of finality while people might be walking to work or driving past with their weekly shop.