Día de los Muertos.

It is a dark carnival.

They climb out of the graves we dug for them and dance through the streets on nylon strings as the skeletons chatter en espanol that today belongs to them and we are the quaint, quiet observers.

Day of the Dead.

We whisper like lovers through calavera masks, following what the birds left of the pan de muerto that we crumbled behind us as we stalked the festival.

Like the wraiths we are.

Safe and sound we light our midnight, windowsill candles and watch as mariposas float in silence to the cemetary on the water, lit by moon and flame alone