Cemetery Lovers

my lover and I havabsconded from a wild party to the gentle sanctitude of an old old cemetery.

colors are distinct and in three. the glossy green of grass, kelly green, irish ghost green.
the white of marble, spotlit as if by theatre footlight. the definite black edges that begin as moldy fingers on the statues and plaques of the tombs and extend to the whole night nothing sky.

we are playing, we are rolling, we are making love. i am posing, i am upside-down, i am hanging from a white cross.

no names on the tombstones, and no names on our lips. just laughs and the lucid thrill of love.

i tell my mom about it. she says 'outdoors? well, at least you didn't make a mess.'

'no, it wasn't like that' i try to explain without getting explicit.

she reminds me that the dead are there; i can only feel the living.