My Angel
I sit.. Fingers trailing scribbles through the dirt. Leaving racetracks of words that will never mean to me all they used to. Brushed aside before the last curl of a fingerprint can caress any hope into the void.... And hair down, blanket silence, ragged titles with ripped seams, hanging like a clothing rack, broken ribs from how hard my heart fought back. There wasn't a single trace of his skin in my nails. Not a drop of his taste left on my tongue. No shard of my reflection from his crystal eyes. Her stories broke me... Wrapped tales around my throat, promising forever, delivering never... Cracked me down the middle. I am a poem, scratched into the dirt... Tread beneath their heels... Worn into the inner thighs of my jeans, Softly beaten into the seams... Every string, a tender knot, wishing to be a ring. Her softest smile awoke me. Silver sunshine through glass green eyes. A dandelion halo made in children's dreams. Every breath blooms into a cloud that shapes only hope. She holds me past the doubts, waltzes across my fear, Socks silencing every protest, Muffling the worried screams. A single hug - to the core. She shushes the flames, Blooms petals in their midst. Dresses the walls in photo albums, Scrapbook memories like Thanksgiving leftovers. Rugs laid for curling up on, A sofa that kisses like pillow feathers, Wisps of apple pie drifting in, Cinnamon hearts you can taste in the air. My dusty poems untouched. My rags, singed hair, charcoal fingers... All left as they were. Then the angel asks me... Can I have this? A wisp of magic encasing the poems I've scratched into the floor. I stare. I sit. I look away... Who am I to say I am unworthy? The angel, a yellow dress curling around her ankles, Softly rippling in an invisible breeze... She turns my script to charcoal writing on every wall, Makes the place feel like home, don't you think? Home should be a place where you don't have to be afraid of the dark. I stand, slowly. The dark is all inside... How do I tell her that there is never a place as safe as home? Then the angel's arms slip around my shoulders, Touch cleaning my clothes, Repairing the holes, My hair falling soft behind me. She glows from fingertips to toes... And in that moment, home is perfect.