Eight minutes.
Eight minutes, the journey of light from the sun to her windowsill.
It's here she'll sit, waiting in her velvet chair with a patience so still.
Fingers tap against the cold white marble, thinking about jumping.
But she's tried before, and hands grabbed her wings and pulled them back and made her feathers stuffing.
And then the Angel thought about the moon- it was created by imperfections.
The angel took a step back with a hearts new rhythm, already feeling the disconnections.
The light only ever blinded and burned what was beneath the halo of a righteous follower.
She kisses the darkness and the stars weren't hidden, they held her power.

Eight minutes.*
Eight minutes, the journey of light from the sun to her windowsill.
But she isn't home anymore with a chair to fill.
She gathered her folded wings and ran
And learned how to fly without the light, just because she can.