Below the Surface

I buried my past seven feet beneath the earth,

where roots never ask

why a flower was born from war.

I buried the man I used to be

without a priest, without a bell, without farewell,

because some deaths are far more polite

when nobody notices they happened while you're still alive.

There lies the fellow

who smiled without distrusting the mirror,

who loved without counting his scars,

who believed in happiness

the way a drunk believes in the last drink:

knowing it might be a lie,

but paying for it anyway.

I buried him with my own hands.

And perhaps that is the worst part.

Because I still remember how he loved.

I still remember how he believed.

I still remember that bloody fool

who called hope a future

and never realised

the future knows how to dig as well.

Seven feet.

It doesn't sound terribly deep

when you're standing above the ground.

But try climbing down

with every memory strapped to your back

and you'll learn that hell

doesn't need fire.

It only needs memory.

Sometimes I speak to him in the small hours.

I ask:

— Are you still there?

And silence answers

with that dreadful little politeness

of someone who knows far more than he ought to.

So I laugh.

Because, really,

there's something rather funny

about burying a man

and carrying on with his name.

Perhaps I've gone mad.

Perhaps he did.

Perhaps neither of us exists anymore

and this is merely a letter

written by someone

who couldn't find anyone

to deliver it to.

But if one day you wish to find him,

don't look into my eyes.

They've learnt how to lie.

Don't look at my smile.

It has learnt how to survive.

Come below the surface.

Seven feet beneath the earth,

there is an old photograph,

a rusting heart

and a man who still believes

someone might come back for him.

Or perhaps there is nothing.

Perhaps you will dig down to the bones

and find nothing but soil.

Perhaps you'll find an empty grave.

Perhaps you'll find me.

And if you do...

don't be so certain

that I was the one who was buried.

Because tonight

I heard someone digging

on the other side of the wall.

And I swear the voice was mine.

Or his.

Or yours.

I don't know.

But keep digging.

The surface is getting

further away.

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