Anup takes his coffee black, almost to the point of boiling.
he exhales steam and straightens his tie, as dark as the crypts he once tended to. judgement begs formalities.
so gold dust settles on his eyelids, shimmering under the delicate touch of a make-up brush, contrasting charcoal irises.

(how does your heart weigh?)

in a modern age, even the gods must adapt,
and the local cemetery remains a sanctuary for the blessed dead.
he ghosts through existence, cleaning off headstones, just a shadow at the edge of the peripheral. he likes it that way.
balanced between life and death, he smiles divine, teeth skeleton-white,
holding your fate cupped in his hands.

(your heart is heavy, isn’t it?)

(we’ll find out)

a.r. – “Undertaker” (via blackcatwalking)