pushing at the frame until, finally,
it washes down over the empty pews,
the dark wood cracked and bent with age.
Outside, the graveyard is fierce aglow
with the promiscuous youth of summer:
lush grasses, endless skies and the wind
tugging at her hair while she adjusts her camera.
Someday, people will look at her pictures;
at me, the blurred figure inside the frame
and they'll wonder: who were they?
But no one will ever know.
Even if we try to tell them,
no one will ever know.