Several years it’s been going on.
The graveyard now in cramped quarters,
flimsy wood crosses
haphazardly staked in ground.
Accelerated decomposition makes for an ancient ruin.
Rocks, weeds and briars hold the corpses —
shallowly interred limbs and bodies merge together
like a mass grave of forgotten lives.
Scrap wood crosses at odd angles,
names shakily etched:
Greg, Domingo, Sunny, Robert, Chad, Michael, Mike, Chet, Ja…
until disintegration is half complete and names blur so that individuality is lost
in the greater field of lovers gone past.
None of them were, actually, of any consequence.
In six months, twelve maybe, their markers will have rotted at the root and
they will be nothing more than flake and muck
in the graveyard of inconsequential lovers.
A new section has been cordoned off for the soon-to-be past lovers:
hacked boards from disenfranchised fences
splintered and tattered,
stacked raggedy markers ready for the next round of
little deaths convinced they are important
© Sabrina Santa Clara, 2012