Only From Angels

She is a ghost, grey gossamer and a breath of a chill.
In this summer hot attic, full of mold and dust,
I come to see her.
Her eyes see me, and her words and distant bells.
I tell her of the world outside, and how nothing changes.
She tells me of fields of wild flowers
and napping by a clear, silver brook, and of the darkness
that was ever outside the corner of her eye, and the song
that came only from angels.
The chill is soothing, and in the hot quiet, we dream together,
our thoughts and memories mingled like fresh air and jasmine,
as the sun marches on.
She loves me. We cannot touch. She loves me. I cherish it.
The world outside is sorrow and disonnection, trying to catch eyes.
She loves me, and that is enough.

3 thoughts on “Only From Angels

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