There’s a picture perfect moon in the sky and all I can think about is you
(which doesn’t make sense because the moon in the heavens and all the stars in the galaxy have nothing to do with you and I).
I think it’s because it was you who I told all my secrets to, you who I confided in—I think it’s because I trusted you.
Sometimes I look up at the cosmos and wonder what type of angel she is and then I wonder if I ever told you my deep, dark thoughts about what happened.
I can’t remember.
My mind is as thick and heavy as my tongue feels— fog everywhere and I cannot see where I am going, much less where I have come from.
There’s something inside of me that, like a caged dog, is awaiting to be unlocked from its restraining bars and I don’t know where to start talking without sounding like an absolute madman.
I think that this poem has transformed from a few lines about you to a few lines about her and to be honest, I don’t remember the last time I wrote about her
(but I guess I should try).
I was a child when I first went to bed and a teenager as I turned in my sleep— we could be twins, she and I, with our closed eyes, and visions of stars at night and pale complexions like the sand on the beach basking in the glow of the hanging moon.
I wonder if she met Samael. I wonder if he was nice.
They told me how much I looked like her; they gushed about how we had the same personality, same sense of humor, but I didn’t want to hear a word they said— I don’t think I could stand to look myself in the mirror if that were true because it would be a constant reminder of her and I don’t want to be reminded.
I think that we all start off as angels and that somehow we end up here, bound down to a life full of interactions and paths to cross and plans to make; I think that we all finish as angels and that somehow we end up there, no longer a single form and single being, we become infinite once more.
But then I remember that even Lucifer, himself, once wore white wings and I think that sometimes we’re no better than him— that I’m no better than him.
I hope Raphael can fix us and I pray that Uriel can set us straight because in this aphotic world, I want to be able to see straight down into into the abyss.
I want to see you through unbiased eyes and hear you through impartial ears the way that I used to be able to until that night outside your house.
I want to tell you all of these things I think about the two of us— all these things I think about my mother and that night and those days in which it happened.