You say, “My dreams are graveyards of ghosts, too, lately,” and so I take your hand and bid, “Show them to me.” We need not fear our graveyards; what harm can the dead do to us now? They may reach out with jealous spectral fingers to touch our warmth and feel our pulses, yet they cannot drag us down into the cold dirt with them. They are naught but the remnants of people who no longer exist (though somewhere someone living still bears their name), memories which fade and curl with time. Do not be afraid as you walk through the graves of your past, our fingers entwined, our steps silent on old leaves and older earth. Stop by one and tell me who lays here, who they were when you knew them, what power they have to come crawling back out of the ground in which you’ve buried them. In turn I’ll take you to mine and tell you about the girl whose heart I broke, the boy who broke mine, the dreams in which they slip through the cracks in the locked door of my subconscious. You need not walk alone in your graveyard. Let me follow at your side and soothe your ghosts back to their everslumber. Then, hand in hand, we will walk out again.


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