We began in a place
where growth is purposefully prevented.
Weeds struggle through cracks,
reaching desperately for sunlight
only to be flattened in passing.

Parking lots
are for coming and going.
For undeveloped beginnings
and unexplained parting.
The gravel catches snippets of sentences,
and a whole conversation ever so often.
It is not meant to see
the middle of the story,
the falling of a heart.

We began in parking lots.
The gravel listened closely
as we discussed our aspirations
and learned each other
piece by piece.
The cement soaked up every detail:
our first few kisses beside my car,
the first whispered "i love you,"
the development of our intimacy
haloed by a streetlamp.

We grew in the comfort of asphalt,
of parking lines and late night love.
We stretched our hearts
to grow in the sun
(or, rather, in the moonlight)
and let our bodies lead,
enchanted.

We are the gravel's dream,
our love forever captured
in parking lots and starlight.