Brown Bird X

There’s a church were we used to walk. A small one. A white one. One where the parking lot’s almost always empty. One where large oak trees have long since overgrown the roof and the spire. Spanish moss blows in the wind from all it’s branches. One where attendees don’t harass you, or try to convert you, for walking by. I’ve never much cared for the church.

—But there’s a garden. It’s small and it’s hidden from the rest of the world. Tucked away from prying eyes, except for the camera on the building, but I don’t think the Pastor minds because in truth I’ve never met him…nor do I care to—

When words failed me, and my lips chapped, and my throat ran coarse from screaming…I went there. I walked to the small algae covered wood bench and watched the butterflies. Ever bird’s song a dagger of its own. The wind rustled through the plants and the vines—the moss and ivy. We talked, I smoked two cigarettes, My only solace is resting in the promises you keep.