I've always had a sort of obsession with Sunday mornings.
I don't go to church, I never have. I have no opposition to religion, in fact I have my own personal ideas about faith and they are not entirely skeptical.
When I pass the one church in my small home town, when I drive buy on Sunday mornings, I picture the boy I known to be sitting in one of the pews, listening to speak of God and all that is holy, and thinking about anything but me.
I think of a dark night, silent at 12 o'clock. Unlocked wooden doors, heavy and tall. Too much alcohol on our breath, we stumble and laugh, light without the load of our inhibitions. Our two bodies become tangled mess on a wooden bench amongst lines of wooden benches. My hands through his fine and smooth brown hair, our lips connected, and the feeling in our heads and hearts that this is real. We're doing this for love, or something like it, not just for the sake of living and doing.
The next day in our Sunday best, on opposite sides of the same spacious yet musty room, newly packed with people, we ask for forgiveness for our sins, but we never regret them.
