But now I know, though it’s too late, that I was just a dove above your shoulder. I ripped the white wings from my back and quietly placed them on a heartbeat that still remembered.
I don’t know if I chose you, or I was destined yours; but I know I was not made out of your rib like Eve of Adam’s; I couldn’t build myself in you as sin in a temptation. I wasn’t light within your temple, I had no altar in your flesh.
Perhaps you pulled me from a dream that wept unnoticed on your pillow, and I slipped gently to your lips so you could build me from a whisper; or carve me out of darkness as an eternal faith.
Your love, I don’t know what it was. But mine – a flood of buds; which crowded in my flesh to bloom my bones into a spring. And from the wounds of my ripped wings flew insects, discarding my body like a sinful angel.
In my mortal eyes you were god’s offspring. But in your scornful love was raging fire, born from the candles of a self, which took us both to hell… and heaven.
And everytime you held me I felt the wings between us, the rib I wasn’t made of piercing through my skin. My eyelids draped over my bare flesh, when we made love like beasts to hide our strangeness.
And silent like two stones, one burried in the other, we drank eternity with hollow mouths; but failed to find each other in the secrets of stolen moments of the past.
But now I know, though it’s too late, that the eternity you gave me was damnation. I ripped my angel wings each time your love dressed me in dreams of insects and bloomed me into spring.