Sea of Graves
Wandering through the sea of graves, we chat about the familiar
names that you might’ve known; and then you ask me to check on the
internet if they’re still alive. And then I ask you, “Did you bang
these old, deceased, rigor mortis-bonered men?”
And you replied full of wit, “If I slept with them, they’d still
be alive wanting more.”
“How many people do you think are dead in here?” Rose asks.
I reply, “Maybe a couple thousand,” quickly to be interrupted by,
“They’re all dead! It’s a cemetery.” And then followed by a cackle
that infectiously lights up my face like a metastatic love-cancer,
that consumes my whole body; grateful to have this moment in the
graveyard – with the one who’s, in age, so much closer to death
than I, and yet so fearless and courageous.
We overlook the library of the dead, only to find happiness; a
joke to what life truly is: a meaningless existence when all is
said and done, with the soul purpose, only to make the living
laugh with lucid memories and to make the dead roll over in their
I cherish the moments in the graveyard.
“Make sure they cremate me, they’ll never get my eyebrows right.”
And even though hearing it more than once, I cherish that phrase
despite knowing the meaning behind it – losing you. But only you
can make losing you into a joke and seem absolutely meaningless
and ever so beautiful.
As you always say, “Life goes on.”