Where Love Dies

We always went in the dark

drove to the outskirts of Wilsonville

approaching Nowhere's land

past the deserted far

and desolate forests

traveling the winding dark roads

never any cars in sight

the tires crunching the gravel.

We'd arrive through rusty iron gates

looming romantically in front of us

creaking open over wet dirt.

A small space near an old wooden outhouse

is where we'd always park

and sit on the trunk of my small little white Honda

to stare up on the stars. 

Of all the times we'd been there

we traveled the grounds through the only once.

It was on one rainy August afternoon

when we observed the titles 

engraved

upon all the tombs. 

A woman lost seven children,

some were merely days old. 

Another family it seemed everyone died.

Were there any survivors?

And withing the same year 

lovers had been separated,

their vows in tact,

for even in death they didn't part. 

It seemed only fitting 

we strayed into that cemetery

for it was the place where love was buried

with little idea

ours would be next. 

Many days we spent

in the abandoned yard of graves,

a place no one else dared travel to,

where illegal herbs were smoked through a pipe

and hands and eyes and tongues would travel

to places the ghosts blushed at.

There we would return

watching many comets soar 

and many moons large and silver

lifting off from the behind the hills,

as we would discuss the meaning of life

and all that entails,

deciding

one day 

we would marry there,

thus finishing life's circle.

But all dreams and plans came to an end

and the cemetery faded into our memories

with many mistakes

lies 

and torture

burning through reality's surface.

In our favorite place

where we would talk about matters of late,

I had to painfully admit it was through,

thus it was there 

among the graves

our love officially died.