Of Angels, of Roses.


She places her hands on my chest. Her skin is warm against mine. My hands are on either side of her waist, and looks up into my eyes. Not at their surface, and not through them, but somehow, directly into their core. She looks beautiful in the early sunrise. The curves of her body are accentuated by the oversized shirt that she borrowed from me earlier. The fabric dangles off her body.

We hadn’t slept at all that night.

Her lips stretch into a languid smile.

She tells me that she loves me.

I love her too. I tell her that. She lays her head on my chest, still with that gentle smile on her face. I pull her impossibly closer. Her scent masks everything- the fabric that lies scattered around me, my bed sheets, the air in the room; everything.

We fall asleep like that, leaned up against the headboard that is parallel with the wall, wrapped in each other, with a bouquet of roses still on the bedside table. The petals, I notice before I let myself drift into slumber, are withering and crushed.

&&&;;

When I wake up the next morning, she’s gone.

I’m unbearably cold when I realize this. Her scent still lingers in the room and in my clothes and bed sheets. I don’t know where she went or when she left. The sun is high in the sky now, lighting my room with an almost obnoxious light, bathing it in a golden glow.

The roses, which I imagine are dead by now, are gone with only a few brittle petals left in it’s place.

I don’t see her again for a very long time, and only hear about her through others. She has someone that she calls her Angel now. From what I hear they’re very happy together. I want to feel happy, too, for her and for myself. But when I hear this piece of news I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach.

She plagues my thoughts for a while. I worry about her well-being almost every day. I remember her pearly skin and her soft, unique voice. I can still hear her voice in a crowd, but she’s never really there. I remember the feeling I got when she looked into my eyes. I can still smell her faintly in my clothes and I remember her taste on my lips.

I wish with my entire being that I was her Angel.

&&&;;

She meets me one day suddenly and without warning. She places her hands on my chest. Her hands are warm as usual. I can barely stand up straight.

Her lips stretch into a broken, melancholy smile.

She tells me she’s sorry.

For everything.

I still can’t gather the will to speak. She held my hand for a brief, delicious moment. But all I can register is that she’s walking away now. I watch her hair being blown back by the wind, and catch her scent on the breeze. I feel like I want to cry.

She’s holding hands with this Angel.

I watch them until they’re out of sight and feel a presence in my hand. I slowly pull my hand up. My entire arm feels heavy. There’s a healthy red rose between my fingers.

&&&;;

I dream every time I fall asleep, now.

I dream that I am her Angel.
I dream that she loves me.
I dream about that night we had together, and when I wake up she’s in my arms this time.

But I’m still dreaming.

She places her hands on my chest.

I’m still dreaming.

If I fall asleep with roses in my hands, will she get them?

I’m still dreaming.