Bride.

Dark dark wood and a white white dress.

White washed pews and a preacher man.

Scar on chin.

Finger tip missing.

The messiness of a true heart.

Perfect.

Tonight.

There is a cut on my finger.
Whiskey in my mouth.

I wanted to go out and wander this neighborhood all month long and now I have and now I am sitting in the lawn of a family I do not know with their sprinklers spraying my chest as I lie face up to the stars and to my God.

I am not sure where my shoes are.
So many things in my head.

I walk heel to toe with the remanence of the water on my feet soaking into the summer warmed sidewalk and I don't feel like doing much of anything so I just keep walking.

I should move to a small town.
I am a great writer.

I sit in my car and I listen to that song with that guy playing that guitar and I think about that time when I talked a good game and had people eating out of the palm of my hand.

Now I am alone.
I am ready to go to bed.

I say goodbye to those whom I know and I recall the nights highlights and laugh to myself a bit and then I reach my bed and I lie down and my eyes shut and the world fades away to that place where worries were not yet invented.