Ever since he left
Angels keep appearing to me
and the iridescence of the snowflakes settled on their wings
never fails to entrance me.
And I'm a little bit drunk.
And while I admire the starkness of the white in which they're clothed,
And the brutal honesty
Of the contrast between them and me,
They fall to their knees begging me to answer what they were sent to ask.
And it's become my burden to send angels with skinned knees back to God with no answer of why he could no longer love me. And I suppose understanding would not make living without hearing you murmer constellations in your sleep any less painful, but not even God himself was prepared for this and I think I'm forgetting how to breathe.