Dead poets.

We decided to meet again at the old church. As his punctuality slipped and slid into lateness, I wandered among the ginger bread gravestones, aimless, trying to feel the bones beneath my feet. A couple approached, the woman fifty feet ahead of the man. She asked, "Are you looking for Robert Frost?" I knew what she meant. She pointed me in the right direction, even though I didn't say yes.

Oh god, I need to write.