for lana.

i met you,
at your grave.

hands caged in foreign fingers
and adventure.
feet in cemetery.

the soles of their shoes
were digging into grass.
their toes
wanted to find you
that bad.

we are searching,
their toes are close to digging,
for your name,
carved into stone,
as if your death is the only thing that is.
lana, you are gone.

please stop pulling on these souls
their shoes should be running away,
and not towards.
but still, i tell them to watch their step,
don't step on the grave stones.

brooklyn straightens up flowers,
and ethan leads the way
with determination
not commonly found in a seven year old.

they tell me stories of you they shouldn't.
lana,
i'm sorry that the only knowledge i have of you
is an impression a 7 year old
should not have the burden of holding.
so you must understand
that my respect for you is not the highest,
after seeing how bruised you made his shoulders
from the weight.

ethan
is not a basket for the memories of your sins.
and brooklyn, is not a pathway to redemption.
i know sometimes you'd see angel in her eyes,
but lana,
a  5 year old is not dependable.

let them grow.
go back home.
stay in your grave,
and let go of their feet.
get out of their dreams.
before they realize who you really were.