I have given my archangel a balcony view of my lands, since he asks to explore them. It leaves me feeling continually naked in his presence; not the lack of clothing but of skin. Each time we meet there, I feel it like a blade: The caressing blade which lets just enough blood to feel its warmth without the shock of spray.
Last night I dreamt of spray but it was not blood; it was dirt, gritty, spun up by tires leaving. Dust at the throat and a sense of failure. It might well have been my own, or my own as well.
I wish to pin my archangel down like a butterfly in a collection while he flutters. And at the same time, I wish to have a minor argument, and resolve it the next morning with a shared joke over eggs at an aged but clean and well-trafficked diner. Not in the physical sense, although of course that passes by as well. But the joke and the mending. And, I suppose, the argument. I will have to find something to argue about.
This love is ridiculous at all times, but in its ordinariness as well as the rest. That is why I am silent about it often. All happy families are the same, it seems, and I am happy to be with him as well as myself. It is a time for ordinary song.