Walking by the church with a dozen dead dialects kissing my neck, the night prays to never again see the light of day. This time last year, I was in a relationship not quite dead but reduced to a state of purgatory. I dream of it often. Not because I’m sad that it’s over, but because the sense of loss is a strange one, and strangeness, it seems, will forever be my epitaph. I’m sad about the dogs, though. Their little doggy faces are with me each day. I’ve always related to animals more than humans, and the five of them weren’t merely pets to me. They were my friends. Friends I’ll never see again. The night cradles me the same as I cradled little teddy at my writing desk. The cheeky sod. My furry son. He most likely doesn’t even remember me. The feel of him in my arms is as familiar as the breeze wrapping about my lonesome bones, and for a moment, I stop and breathe him in, knowing he’s out there, somewhere, sleeping without me. The gravestones watch my every move, speaking words I can’t comprehend. The cigarette between my fingers drops to the ground before blowing into the road. The road is long. It twists and turns. I was once a child. Still am, somewhere, on a stretch that races away only to come back again, the same yet different every time.