In the arms of angels, we sleep
Cosseted from a darkness
Whose midnight tendrils feel for us,
Searches us out in this teetering existence,
Listens for our heartbeat
In this reality not made for individuals,
This collective whole, this solo pursuit.
But it finds me; she calls it.
My angel has wings of black feathers,
They tease my bare flesh,
Stoking up goose pimples
With promises of luxurious honey;
They say the darkness wants
But won’t allow it.
My angel protects me, loves me,
Or so she purrs;
Saves me from myself, she coos.
Obsidian darkness creeps across her,
Touches her smile,
Peels back her glossy feathers,
Dissects her thoughts, and I see her
And she sees me.
I want this I whisper.
I know she smiles.