We’ll Feel Immortal

We define ourselves by our hopelessness,

Our homeliness, our you’ll never leave your hometown-iness

Dance with me in the churchyard -

The one you were born in, the one you’ll die in.

You already have your plot picked out -

Name carved out on stone.

I can already see the vine growing over it,

Your name so gray almost obscured entirely,

Until you’re nothing, no one knows what you were to me.

You’ll say marry me in that churchyard,

And in that one moment we’ll feel immortal, like daffodils in August.

So yellow it’s nauseating. They’ll want to step on us, but there’s no need. We already forgot about December.