She’s here with me, as though she’d always be,
the night before her life goes on.
Just a few more moments here with me,
It’s four a.m., and soon it'll be dawn.
Tomorrow she’ll be gone again,
off to valleys and professors,
leaving me to take the strain,
and work of “Hi, how are you?” chores.
Beneath her hair, in my shirt fold,
there’s a gold bra clasp reflecting moonlight.
Somewhere between cotton and gold,
we’re in my bed, one more last night.
          Now every second I am nearer
          to being a boy in her rear mirror.

You were given the godly power of man,
to make and mold young cherubim.
You were graced to ease them from a nest
and dole out their pairs of wings.

But you stole years and loves
and freedoms and prides.
You made their roses sick.

You knocked your angels out of the sky.
You made it too cold for them to fly.

As a fallen angel,
from down under the upper hand,
I hope that you make it.