You were talking about the past, and the things we had done before we knew what to do. I recalled how the sun died tired in our back garden, green that stretched out like a landing strip towards the cemetery. Over the wooden fence was where the dead lived and dreamed their dreams of London, trodden on by crackheads and the men seeking sex from men like themselves. I felt the slower we went the better, easy-does-it over the fence boys, but a night of heavy drinking had impaired an already stiff and unagile body. When I fell, into the realm of the dead, my brittle collarbone snapped on a ruined grave and my head poured blood from its left side. I blacked out, and when I came to, had lost my filter and spoke openly of the things that preoccupied me but I felt too embarrassed to express in daylight. This troubled you, who ushered me through the dank and dripping tombs to where we had summoned a flashing ambulance. A man from the council was summoned to unlock the Victorian gates; all advised that trying to scale the boundaries of the necropolis a second time was foolish. The paramedics took my heartbeat, asked if I’d taken something, my chest was thudding fast and hard, so of course I had to answer yes.
But what were you saying about… what were you saying?
Because all I could think about was that night in the cemetery; the mossed statues didn't make for easy conversation. What we failed to speak of was how we got ourselves through the dark days and made it all make sense; how we tried to lighten our dark cadence, and stop ourselves sinking.