the sunset imbues its last glance
as molten lavas cool into exotic crimson
painting the color of romance over the horizon.
the clouds flew,
and you closed your eyes,
cicada songs humming through your ears,
and pink hues glowing across your cheeks.

then, i saw your chocolate brown
eyes gazing out in awe.
your fawn satin skin seemed so delicate,
as did your jet black hair.
coral florets glowed among fluorescent orange, yellow, pink flavescent clouds, calm in migration.

the west reaches for clothes of new colors
which it passes to a row of ancient trees.
you open your eyes, and soon these two worlds both leave you;
one part climbs toward heaven, one sinks to earth.

it's nearly dark now, and the stars are peaking out amongst the clouds.
you're lying in the grass, feeling every strand tickle your bare legs.
you close your eyes again, and the air you're breathing is hot and heavy.

i strode my fingers through your hair, sighing softly
gazing away at
blue evening grandeur skies, and you smiled…

pastels in yellow flow around my scene
and i relish in the comely gold light for at last,
we are gazing at the same sun.

angels.

angels who miss their wings at 3 am when they feel more out of place in this body then before, angels who need pain to bring themselves out of their dreams, who ink themselves with words only prophets would understand; angels who have the most ordinary jobs like bus drivers and paper boys, people see them and think about them for moments too long.

angels who turn to drinking and smoking, trying to forget the feeling of their wings pushing air behind them as they flew. angels who can't avoid the call of the sky and become pilots who are always drinking coffee because the caffeine reminds them of the golden ichor that was once flowing through their veins.

vengeful angels who become pilots as well, who terrorize the winged folk to feel powerful again, to feel control again. angels who message each other, fingers trembling as they type out their dreams, trying to grab those memories that are just out of reach, gauzy and filled with blood and silver-tinted skin and golden eyes and so many feathers. angels who live in church basements and see pictures of themselves in the stained glass windows and go unclothed, trying to reach that feeling of purity, freedom.

fallen angels who burn churches, filling their lungs with smoke as they climb to the steeple, not just from reprisal but from the feeling of mutiny. angels who ride out into the country alone with a handful of stolen cash who steal from nearly empty gas stations and throw rocks at the windows of abandoned barns after they've climbed to the roof and back to earth. angels who streak their backs with ashes because they don't have the scars that they should from having their wings torn away and the golden ichor doesnt bleed away and stain the ground like it used to.

angels who hang out in bookstores and coffee shops because they're looking for an oracle or someone, anyone, who will listen to their impossible dreams of flight and blood spattering the ground, of fighting and dying and they can't explain it.

angels with shaky hands who try to find love because there's something missing and everyone tells them that love will help them, and maybe it does, but there are always angels out there who have loved and loved and there is still something BROKEN, something LOST, and it's been pounded into their minds that they'll never know what it is. angels who run with demons and devils because there's nothing quite like the rush of running in the dark, standing at the edge of the city and feeling the wind nearly blow you off as you curl your toes on the edge of the roof, so close to the sky it takes their breath away.

angels.

the sunset imbues its last glance
as molten lavas cool into exotic crimson
painting the color of romance over the horizon.
the clouds flew, and you closed your eyes,
cicada songs humming through your ears,
and pink hues glowing across your skin.

when my aching heart ached in excess, i sought out to sleep, dream, escape.
the first thing i saw was you.
but upon your heavenly resemblance, i was washed ashore.

i remember the sand as soft ivory, dancing under my feet. buy pay no attention to the sand, for something else had already caught me.
the sky.
wrapped in the wildest hue of violet, with the drape's silky edges tucked into the horizon. the color was deep and passionate in every way, it intoxicated the evening with its romantic cologne. the west reaches for clothes of new colors
whom it passes to a row of ancient trees.
the stars constantly winked, praising the earth in repetitive bangles.
the moon was its fullest on that night, and so it wasted no time, it beamed in bravado, the strangest white.

you open your eyes, and soon these two worlds both leave you; one part climbs toward heaven, one sinks to earth.

i want to tell a story about the colors in the trees.

i want to tell you about the quaking in my hands.

i want you to know where the rain falls,
how the crashing voices
sound like waves in the night time,
tugged tides tied to the moon
like a leash to a dog.

i want to give you something to regret.

i want you to recall how i, in all of my
innocence and passion
fell over you
(in concentrated lust
but also romance)
on that day in late may,
how you held
my bare body against yours
how in that moment
i remembered nothing but skin and skin
and
skin, nothing
but firsts,
but blessings
but

i want you to wonder how the holy swallow their love.
(i have confirmed, they do it like one would pomegranate seeds- with their eyes shut, but you wouldn't know)

i want you to believe you lost a good thing.
there's love grown in my belly the way
i was told watermelon patches would when
i was young and didn't
know any better.

i want to say that i didn't know you would destroy me.
that the rips under my skin were a shock
the ice-pick to my heart was unexpected.

i want to say something
but all that comes out is
i'm sorry
not knowing what i'm sorry for.

worship me
like moses' interpretation
of jesus on the third day
rising up like hot air
and pinned arms on
sundays

// she falls in love the same way that she falls apart; quickly and all at once.

tumbling into his outstretched palms with a startling intensity, his fists clench and she cries.

she wants him to hurt her, leave smouldering bruises around her neck. Force your fingers down her throat and make her beg. maybe this love; choking sounds and blood.

it’s almost funny, the fact that she still hasn’t learned yet; make him your everything and you will be left with nothing.

and it feels like hell, almost romantic.

her lips part in the dimly lit room, gasping for air.

that’s the thing, there is nothing he could do to her that she wouldn’t do to herself. hold a knife to her neck and watch her soul drip from her mouth

one rib at a time you snapped them all like twigs and complained that she made too much noise. too much,

too loud.

lungs swimming in fluid yet she breathes out flowers, because that’s what pretty girls do; that’s what you wanted isn’t it babe? beauty. perfection.

don’t let him inside your head, keep him between your thighs or else everything around you will become white noise; fading into the background.

go on, romanticise it. i dare you.

force its unwilling bones into a metaphor or a simile.

pretend that we fall apart into beautiful, tragic spectacles and simply glue the broken fragments back together

she sat in the dark with a cup of tea between her shaking hands, resisting the urge to split her veins over the white walls and string her organs from the ceiling like fairy lights.

wanting to die in the most violent of ways is a lot less convenient than it seems; an unholy addiction of the rawest degree.

darling, i’m sorry he made you feel like you are hard to love,

because loving you is the easiest thing in the world //