I had a great idea today. 

But someone had already made a movie about it. 

There is a four by four image of a living room that has haunted my mind. I’ve written about it when I imagined it, but orgasming a quick thought into words usually ends up retarded. 

I’ve thought of this place for years and it is now a place that I’ve seen beyond just daydreaming. 

In loneliness, you tend to think about women. It’s a fact of biology. 

There was once a country girl that had taken me to church with her family. We’d spent the winter together and I thought that I loved her because she had a big ass and a way of loving that I hadn’t felt before. She had little black brothers that she loved and that settled some young and racist bone in my body. It was an untapped way of loving that seemed right, at an age when nothing did. 

When you meet the right lady, you remember the sunsets— or what the sky looked like in the evening. You remember the music playing and you remember what you whispered. We’d drive around at night, in our youth, and talk about life and crud. She’d bring her lip gloss around and let me try it. She’d only wanted to be my friend, even though we kissed in my bed. 

When I looked over her fence one evening, I saw the tops of homes and the sun in a way that reminded me of being young and innocent. When I used to visit this old lake house in the summer. Remembering my wise and old look into beyond, as I saw the sun set on that day as it did, the same way, on the lake when I was young. Somber. And embraced by nothing but the magnificence of sky and heaven. Quietly watching the sun go away, without any impending thought, like the feeling would never end. 

She made me feel that way again, as an eighteen year old that was addicted to pot and a good time. 

The last time I had seen her, we reconnected with ambition to relight the flame of southern American whites. She’d greeted me in the night and we made something in the ball-park of love. 

This untapped loving woman was still alive and breathing as I left her. 

But, 

I often see her in an imaginary living room, in Savanna. White drapes, deep oak flooring, long candlesticks. The window is just open, into the night of hanging spanish moss and orange streetlights. Some weary, beautiful country medley is quiet behind her beautiful blonde hair. 

If I think of heaven

That's it.