A Poem

Yakov

There's a grave somewhere
With a sun bleached white shell
Waiting
Waiting for my return
To bring you news of my trip
Of places you have also been

But seashells and rocks are all that I can leave you
When I go
And everyone who sees them
May not know that it was me
But seashells are not native to the cemetery
And I'm an equal stranger

I miss you
And it's still hard to imagine
That you're never coming back
To tell me all about the rocks I leave
Such tragic irony