When I was young enough to know that I did not fit in.
I proposed that I was an angel
that fell from the heavens and lost their wings.
All I had to do to make friends was find them.

So I spent the next day frantically searching for my wings.
Sobbing with despair when I never found them,
and looking at the sunset only slightly out of reach.

Even now, I never found my wings.
But I did find other fallen angels.

The moon sings to the crimson red flower, to bloom at midnight hour. Harmonizing with the pale lover's song, with languid movements of her own. Curling her blossoms, shaking her leafs — being as pretty as can be.

I watch as the rose gives itself to the moon, to luminescent light and angelic tune.
And while I lay in your arms, your glory bequeathed with a laurel wreath, our love promised with a diamond ring, I realize that the rose and I might just be the same thing.