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The Fallen Angel.
Folder:
home. The memories of him come rushing,
Like his scent stamped firmly upon this page.
I can still feel his presence beside me,
Though there is a half decade between then and now.
I can still see him standing,
Hesitating and waiting,
Always waiting.
He is bathed in neon lights.
They turn his freckled skin to shades of muted blue
And his hair to a mottled violet.
He seems like a fallen angel,
Both rugged and ethereal as he stands
Beneath the flickering motel sign.
I can still see it flashing it's indecision,
But i can't remember the final outcome.
And still, I can recall the warm, lethargic september
Nights, intertwined in the back seat of his car.
We watched another indian summer draw to a close,
Like the curtains in my grandmother's house where
We used to sit, reveling in the joys of innocent youth
And sipping tea from plastic cups.
His heart beat racing alongside my own as
Lips grazed skins, tongues darted in a sensual dance,
Fingers eagerly pursuing that welcome rush.
He was searching, always searching,
As we rounded those invisible bases.
I look down at the letter in my shaking hands.
There is no bearer of bad news.
I cannot blame the letter for his departure
From me, from our desolate Massachusetts town, or from life itself.
He was still my fallen angel,
but no longer was he searching for something just out of consciousness,
or waiting for the answer that would never come.
No, he had found his home,
And had been welcomed there with open arms,
Leaving me to revel in his memory.
