I dream of you. Like the field mice dream of the musky pages of the books tucked into the pews of the chapel. I was forced to go, you know. Its not that I didn't love church. But I also truly didn't. Afterall, stained windows always feel like a more important god at the age of 6. Sermons like the droning of adults so seriously urging the rambled gibberish finding your ears to be real. But at 6 I think you know what is real. You slap your hard bottom shoes on to the puddles forming on the parish's headstones, you feel the hard ground and you smell earth as if it was freshly dug. You go home, you play and then at night you pray the god they mentioned is merciful tomorrow. But when tomorrow comes, he will decide who he is outside of his children. So when tomorrow came, as it always comes, I decided who I was outside too. What god was when my hands did not form the roof of a house. When the rain was allowed to soaked past my scalp to form rivers. After turning away from the gates. I have found god in a river of light. That no longer reflects fences into the sky.