When I returned home
after burying you in
the moon-lit grave,
I found myself
inadvertently buried.

And I found you wide awake
in my room, smiling a smile
that only a death-proof
angel can smile, the face
lighting up like a dream
of a cuckoo sleeping on the
dew-laden roses in a drowsy evening.

As the clouds hanging from
an intoxicated sky, your
lips moved, releasing,
like a rain in slow motion,
a few words that seemed to
ask me: “Where have you been?”

The mysterious night sitting
heavily on my eyes, I feebly said:
“I went to attend my funeral”.

“But how can you sleep
in my grave”, you asked.

“If you are sleeping
in my bed,
can’t I sleep in your grave”.