"El amante entre los �ngeles sigue prohibido fuera de cielo."
Sometimes we are angels.
He traces his fingers through my hair as I take him softly into my mouth, the scent of his love stretched across a thousand kisses. He shines brighter than midnight and each mood is a gift. His love letter comes encoded deeply in the satisfying passion of an exhausted hum. I suffer silent and hard for the muted echo of his throbbing heart, on the sleeve of corruption. He stops me before we are complete. Or have completed.
His lips fall on mine and he casually licks my upper lip, content in such a way that I think I taste like strawberries. But I probably taste more like cigarettes. He makes me feel almost human (less flawed) as he takes me into his mouth. The world suddenly feels better as surreal tones obscure the absurdity of fractured boundaries. (We have always defied convention.)
(We have always defined each other.)
He lies on his stomach as I caress the wounds that are his shoulder blades, where, I'm sure, someday his wings will be. We make love like shadows, die and hold each other until the moon has joined us.
"Angels are lucky," I tell him, safe in his embrace.
"Why?" he asks, locked in the moment.
"Because they have no genitalia," I whisper before dozing off.
Sometimes he and I are angels.
