There’s a cemetery on 3rd and Madison. The grass is overgrown and not many call it home. But the ones that do sleep in their own wooden coffins until the worms get through, and use their bodies for food. I hope they found peace when they went to sleep in the ground like my mother told me when I was a little boy, and I lost my grandmother after a long life of living in a basement that was never sound. Forever and always, and love never dies. I’m just surprised we believe this lie. Forever and always, if love never dies, then look me in the eye and tell me that these bodies, they still live in love. It’s a myth of its own. I don’t even think that it’s real. I thought I was in love before, but it turned its back on me and walked right out the door, leaving no rose petals or heart-shaped candies behind. This is why I’ve realized that life’s never kind. And I never could dance. It never made me any better, and I never wrote poems or stupid love letters. And every relationship that I had has gone straight to hell along with all the “you and I”s. Sometimes I wish I had never sold myself to love. Sometimes I wish I never sold myself at all.