I chased so many fallen angels. Too many. Or just enough. Either way, it was like an addiction. The charred eyes of a fallen angel did something to me.
The angel fell and I followed, off the ridge of the mountain, the angel gliding downward on her sharp wings, me torpedoing into my latest crater.
Crash-landing like that takes a toll. Oh, the headaches.
Sure, I touched faces with the most golden eyes. I brushed the feathers of the darkest light. These bruises over my body I believed were the markings of love, for so long I believed this.
I will always have a special place in my heart for the fallen, for those who have sinned and wonder if they can change, for those who rest and rehabilitate behind the great barriers of the heart. I know the shape of their wings well.
But I fly upward now. I have learned how. It begins with emptying one’s chest of all the dead weight. The beauty in flying with another lies in the thing that allows us to rise together: