I want a gate just like this for my grave, so that no one can tend it. Let my hair grow long. Let it fade like the snow and rebirth itself upon the dead bodies of its seed. Let the beetles burrow homes, scurrying close to my cold stone at a footstep's vibrations, roly polys as its neighbors, those red centipedes that look like they could sting. No one to fear them there. Let dogs wet my ground with their body's salt waters as their owners walk them past, unknowing of my host, head-lost in times when they were loved, or when they loved the day they died.