Her face seems fuller and plumper now, no longer the svelte and hard drawn lines of the night she perfected the spell that gave her flight.
It’s 8 am in the bare beamed and unfinished attic in an opulent and dreamless Belmont home, as she floats in the lotus position before a sunlight blasted bay window.
Like a comic book mystic, but melancholy as the sunlight has been stolen from her, and her time in the sun burned out her eyes.
When she was an angel I gathered the roses burned for her, an incense of narcotic adoration and sickly touches, what got her free while her eyes burned.
Up in the blue sky, the sun that ate her was eclipsed by her silk wings stark white, sewn by taking her spell of flight to an interloper that drank its blood.
And what was I hoping for, when she could only be an angel for a morning and afternoon, and I drew dark sigils with the wing feathers she gave me.
Face fuller, body now round and master human, the spell faded away, but other spells have fallen on her, hazy drunken wonder. All our sigils brought her this.