I kissed a guy in a graveyard late last night.
I kissed him between the headstones of a husband and wife born in 1744. And it was holy.
Because here I was. Surrounded by the dead. Being loyal to my sexuality in the company of the ghosts of folks who had no choice but to conform to a chosen sexuality whether they wanted to or not.
It was a communion of saints, a prayer to the dead. A resurrection unfolding.














