My head feels so heavy for my body. His body feels too heavy for his soul. And here we are, toiling through life, waiting for heaven, lamenting all in contrast with that likeness.
How do we have it in us to keep reaching for paradise when it’s been lost for so long?
His wings are white underneath all the grime and dirt from charting courses in all the manholes of lost dreams in search of his heart.
My wings are black with the void from whence I came, shaking from the weight of trying to reconcile with sunbeams that char fragile feathers.
I retreat into dark places to remind me of origin, and there I find many lost treasures and forgotten things. I think I found a missing heart there once, and I took it to the light to clean and revive it, even if the day burns my skin.
The sun told me to deliver this heart, so I found the angel and gave it back, put it in his chest that he might truly live. But daylight caught me and I fell to the ground, even though winged things don’t belong there.
I thought I would burn away forever until white wings covered me, and strong arms found me a shady place to heal the blisters and grow my feathers back.
I found a salve under the earth and peace in twilight, and I left the night behind me.
Now I live in shadows, in dusk and in dawn. The angel waves at me from high noon. I remain to bring his lost pieces back to him. And he remains to bring me shelter from the blazing sun.
Copyright © 2021, Sheyorah Naify