Your peace & irreverence in cemeteries is so charming. Remember the time you spent Christmas Eve at Mark Twain's grave?
There you sat, your back up against his monument, holding forth about writing & wars & black humor with a man who'd long gone to dust. And when darkness fell, you began to recite your poetry to him, the words spilling out like a song in the night.
You memorized the words at the base of his monument like a prayer: "Death is the starlit strip between the companionship of yesterday and the reunion of tomorrow."
You're not sure about life after death, but it comforts you all the same. There's charm in that, too.
Never lose your ease among the bones of the dead. It makes you magical.