In that moment,
descending into a drunken mess,
he tried to grasp at the moon but stumbled over his own soul,
what might have become or may have been,
ours is not to tell,
nor is there rhyme or reason,
for betwixt the threshold of darkness and a flickering candle,
the beacon to the lost is sometimes found,
inwardly looking at the reflection within,
not with standing the image without,
all is but a dream.

Angel,
fallen from on high, to shine ethreal light, just above the face of I who am blessed.
That your decention is made harrows the mind,
but blind bliss covers any reason like sugar.
That you look on me with those golden cloud eyes,
precious is your gaze,
is magic in itself. It's something that had been impossible in the flightiest dream of the latest night.
What my own eyes behold, as much as such things may hold burning beauty,
are more thankful than I could ever hope to say.

Darling Angel,
could you find it in your own to gift me with your words?
Through the times that I've been graced with these pearls,
through the glamour of it all, I've begun to realize what your words are really like.
Dark, lush rose petals,
stumble and flow from behind your teeth,
filling your tounge with plump redness that soothes my ears,
and captures the curves and sways of my heart.

Like a sunrise or washing tide, this feeling that pulls at my throat and chest leaves me almost breathless, creating a bridge of tangible tension supported by our locking eyes. With each attempt to express what mortal words I may stutter, my breath leaves me just as quickly as I attempt to speak, building our silent bond.