The Lovers hold hands over the deceased and smile at graves, picnicking at cemeteries.
The Lovers pay respects to the forgotten, leaving flowers and telling stories.
The Lovers recall victims upon victims, reminisce under the moonlight as another is buried.
The Lovers grieve and mourn, burdening secrets of the dead and stalking from shadows.
The Lovers protect each other, create alibis and claim self defense.
The Lovers sneak around the scene, revisiting their crimes and hiding clues.
The Lovers, among you and me.
The Lovers, plain in sight but we don't see.
YOU ARE READING
Literal Hell | Poetry
Poetrypoetry book. song (in title): We Don't Have to Dance- Andy Black picture (in cover): me
