again i see you, far away, speaking from a star.
a performance without an audience is an act of courage,
darling. nothing grows up there, mercurial twins
fleeting as the mist in your memorial garden.

come down.

when i visit, time has already willed your headstone
unkempt, but the smell still lingers. some ancient acrid rain.
i imagine the patter will sound like a baptism.
or at least, it will sound.

come down.

some people call it selfish
but you call it home,

in the name of the father,
and the son,
and the holy ghost.