Overcast was the climate. Uncolored was the day. She is leaning on the headstone. The markers of memories. The single rose spins, nauseously. In the month of Shivat her face is tawny. I am assuming that she senses my presence. But assumption has not a spine, nor a structure. Along with the cemetery breeze; is a stowaway, a very interesting -- intruder. Compelling the lilac. Divorcing the snapdragon. The slit of her dress is long. Her leg is pulling at the hazel of my eyes. The rough of my tongue, on the smooth of her thigh. To make my approach is all that's left. Finishing this over-imagined conversation should help make things -- right. Here I am now. In front of them both. The stone is nameless, in the high-grass. Her knees cannot buckle, and I am being withheld, Incommunicado. Nothing resolved, we choose -- solitude.