Cain't have you love, don't want nobody at all. You member that time in Hiawassee, we rode them hay rides through the woods at night. Them people was weird but we had fun, I suppose. I recall a pleasant evening, I am unsure about your version but you did in fact possess your own little perfume cloud to go along with a pouty face. You had a yeller ribbon in your hair, it's golden-brown, the Clermont color, just past Mountain Fresh Creamery to be exact. They's more horses, cows and chickens here than people, that's why I love it. People see me in a store they either turn and run away or greet me by my Christian name.
They's ghosts that live at Anna Ruby Falls, my twin waterfalls. That place is prettier than a picture, a shady grove chocked full of orchards, tiger-lilies in the summertime, apples in the Fall.
I wish I had a bunch of warthogs, foxes in the fog, a pond-garden and rust-speckled wandering spiders in the barn, bruised clouds and peppering rain, an old tin roof and saw-grass collecting dew, a web of flesh and bone to create happiness, organs that aren't broken, to never write again, a writer either resurrects their love or kills it.
God is a writer. He said endureth. Beareth all things, even the unbearable, hopeth in all things and rejoice.