[the beginning]

Angels fall when we're not watching.

You see, our story is not that simple. There is a fundamental gap in our memories we cannot bridge. We dream of wings and feathers, and wake up to blank walls. Sing of heaven on earth and close our eyes before sinners. Touch the hearts of those we love and break the hearts of those we abandon in our haste to save ourselves from reality. We are selfish, you see. We are human.

Sometimes, so are they.

i wish i could write things that
beautiful, she says
to blank walls and imaginary posters.

some people paint the sky in pinks and oranges until
they can't see the difference between
dawn and
sunset.
others shade forest paths of
black and white
onto beautiful wax paper with
ink. to watch the way
parallels blend into perpendiculars--
something profound.

you'd read me your pseudo-poetry in the
heat of summer behind a rose bush, and we'd
prick our fingers, rip our shirts
in a rush of adrenaline untraceable.
there are greater things out there, i'd say,
and imagine wind carrying such wise words
to that neighborhood kid down the block,
but such philosophies get stifled on particularly
hot
days.

sunday afternoons in empty classrooms are
better on wintry days.
we'd dangle our legs over plastic desks and
read the secrets splayed
on the side, under the surface, next to that
piece of gum--
secrets grow like ivy vines here, long and twisted and
very much alive.
in another universe, the table says but
never finishes the thought.

in another universe, we'd
love like puppets do,
no strings attached, and a little less geometrical
because that's the only way we'd be able to fly.

you are not here, but
i am.