Poetry Extras - As Per Your Request - A Letter From the Grave

A poem in progress, draft form, etc

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Hello poetry people,

I woke with a phrase in my head ‘as per your request’ and the remnant of a dream, an image of a skeleton writing. No matter what I did, my brain wouldn’t stop composing sentences. So, here it is, fresh off the press, barely edited (I’ll do that later), just for you.

Photo by Sandra Seitamaa on Unsplash

As Per Your Request 

My love,
As per your request, I am writing to you from the grave,
The singing and crying has barely finished, the flowers -
I did ask for no flowers, but maybe you forgot - barely 
wilted and already I am composing letters to you, 
wanting to share with you every aspect of this singular 
experience. It’s dark, and not so cold as I feared, and 
if I concentrate hard I can see the world above. I hope the 
effort becomes easier or I may end up with a headache, 
if that’s possible. I miss you so much, your touch, your feel, 
your love. I need a moment, my love, the loss of you has taken 
my breath away and I need to gather myself. This ache is
searing, and I am bereft for a moment. But I must 
pull myself together and return so I can fulfil your requests. 

My only, 
As per my request you buried me with paper, pen and ink.
I see three colours, I requested four, a pot may have 
moved when they lowered me into the ground.
It wasn’t the smoothest of journeys, a few jolts and jars. 
Once I felt my head slide and knock the wood gently. 
Did you hear it? Did it scare you? Did you think I 
wasn’t dead after all and want to rip off the coffin lid
And steal me away from death? Who were the pall bearers 
anyway, I didn’t recognise them, did none of my friends 
volunteer, and why was one so short causing my unfortunate 
slip inside? That’s probably when the fourth pot of ink moved.
I can’t imagine you would have denied my request, not deliberately 
anyway, maybe you couldn’t find it, maybe the undertakers 
misplaced it. I’ll find out eventually, I suppose. 

My beloved,
As per your request, I will write to you everyday, 
or most days, or at least some days, well hopefully, 
most days, time is slow down here, and I’m unsure of it’s 
passing. You don’t visit much and I no longer feel your presence 
strongly, maybe this is how you process grief. It’s been a while 
and the pen is sticky with juices, as I appear to be melting, 
leaving stains on the paper. Don’t sniff them, will you? 
Did my gruesome joke offend you, my love? I apologise.
Please come see me again. Eventually I will decay no 
more and my letters will be clean and ghostly only. 
Even the paper and pen and ink mere shadows of 
themselves. As I disintegrate so do they. Ghost paper, 
ghost pen, ghost ink. I never did find that fourth pot. 
It was my favourite colour too, deep sumptuous green. 

My dearest, 
As per your request, I have not faded away and parted 
this mortal realm. I spent a long time persuading 
ghost tendons to help me move my bones. They gleam
with a silver sheen in the dark, it’s very helpful 
when I want to write, as I’m still relying on memory of sight
to help me scribble on the paper. It’s difficult to be neat
down here as it’s fairly cramped. And I don’t like the 
idea of sitting with my head in compacted soil, so
I sprawl lengthwise. I could, I suppose, rise from 
here and find somewhere more comfortable 
but then I would have to persuade my skeleton 
to loosen its atoms and help me rise and I’m not sure 
I’d be able to enable re cohesion enough to hold a pen. 
And then where would that leave us? And I don’t want to scare
you away when you come, if you come again, to visit. 
I’m not sure if you would see me or not. My tooth full skull 
forever grinning through my love and pain of losing you, 

My heart,
As per your request, I don’t forget you, here in this in 
between time, whilst I wait. I’m sorry I left so early
and you have had to live whilst I deathed.
I had to rise eventually, the wood began to crack and
let in soil and grubs and I didn’t like that. So I sit 
bare boned, my clothes long since rotted away, 
gleaming tendoned, writing ghost letters to you,
my love. It’s been a long time since I died and I 
have been lonely waiting for you. My headstone 
is lichen covered now, and I wonder just how 
long it has been? You stopped visiting after my 
grisly joke and I can only assume you have moved on.

My darling,  
As per your request, I’ve recorded my death for you. 
Since I rose from beneath I’ve met others who linger 
whilst waiting. It’s been good to have a chat now and again. 
I’ve learnt how to be an ethereal version of my corporeal self 
and have clothed myself in ghostly muscle, flesh, skin and 
even hair. I feel it’s a good representation without
too many vanity tweaks. I’ve even learnt a version of
sleep, where I lie on my grave and hover only
an atoms breadth off the grass and rest. Though I can’t
relax properly or I won’t hold my appearance and will 
dissipate into my next form. I can’t go yet though, 
for I am still writing and waiting for you. 

My one,
As per your request, as per your request, as …
I don’t think you are coming. The others are kind but tell me
I hold onto false hope. They tell me to forget you and move on.
They may be right, the years have stretched too long, 
and I can’t imagine you still live, you would be so 
incredibly ancient. The new ghosts here are so different 
I can tell the world out there beyond this cemetery is now 
very, very changed from the time you and I lived and loved in. 
You can barely see my inscription now the lichen and moss
have clung so thickly. I don’t write much anymore, the pile of 
papers is high and you’ve never come for them.
Sometimes now a shadow wind catches a page or two 
and I watch them blow away. The others who wait pick 
them up and read them and I see them glance sadly
at me, and understand why I’ve begun to let myself fade. 

My . . 
As per your re…..
I can’t stay much longer my love, there is so little of me left,
Just this core, my soul I believe, this shining orb of
essential me. Soon I will let it, me, go to the next realm 
and so be gone from here. You never came again 
and I waited so long, wrote so much for you. 
There are only a few tatty scraps left now. When they are
gathered by the breeze I will have nothing left to hold me here. 
Goodbye, my love. I loved you even from beyond the grave, 
as per your request. 

Photo by Marek Piwnicki on Unsplash

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