here we are: our own paradise.
we’re sat in your green
hunk-of-junk named florence.
the air is stained with
the smell of **** and unrequited love.
you’re so comfortable here;
smiling, laughing, and singing along
to every song on the radio
(even if you don’t know all the words)

you’re an angel, you always have been.
i think i’ve always known, but i see it now.
your wings begin to emerge
from the hole you’ve kept them in
for so long.
they aren’t what i expected,
instead they’ve faded
and appear to be broken.
it’s as if someone had plucked away
at you for so long,
damaging every part of who you are,
the feathers have stopped growing in.
oh, how i wish i could fix them for you.
i would do anything to find
your lost pieces
and put them back together for you.