Taphophile

There’s something beautiful about cemeteries.  The comfortable silence, penetrated only by the feel of the misty rain on your face.  The clouds block the sun, inviting you to take a better look at what has become of the world.  Words have faded from the tombstones, and the weather has taken its toll on what remains.  Everyone is equal here.  They are no longer characterized with anything other than being deceased.  You start to think of all those who are living.  You know more about these people lying here than you do of the strangers that you pass by on the street.  You are calm here.  Standing on the gravel path, with not a soul in sight.  Open gates hide what people cannot come to terms with.  One day, this will be their home.  You wander in, and time appears to stand still.  Ahead of you is the quiet, dark beauty of the cemetery.  A siren.  While right behind you is the blare of the traffic and the bustle of the pedestrians.  You could lose yourself here.  An overcast day is perfect for a visit to a cemetery.  You know no one here, yet you pay your respects.  A raven crows in the distance.  It’s as if you are being acknowledged.  You seem to be hesitant.  The beauty of it all overwhelms you.  You wish you had someone to share it with.  The peacefulness.  The soft rain that falls like the tears of those buried here.  The crunch of the gravel beneath your feet.  You’re not moving though.  It’s her, walking up behind you.  She slips her fingers between yours.  A skeleton of a hand.  She’s offering you a tour.  There’s something beautiful about cemeteries.  But there’s something even more beautiful about getting to share them with someone.

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