You are love. Your name is Yzkiel. Your name was Yzkiel. You are not Yzkiel. They were buried in a shoddy grave on a ruined hillside far away. You are something more, now. You wonder if you are something less, too.
You could have lived a normal life, a quiet life. You would have liked that, you think -- maybe that version of yourself would have longed for adventure, for their dull dreary mundane life to be turned upside down, but -- they would not have known their blessing, of course.
You long for a trivial existence.
You are love, but so little love has the cold world shown you, has it not?
You are love, and your lover is dead. If you had not loved him, he would be alive right now. If he had not loved you, he would be safe. Alive.
You are love, and you are alone, and you serve a greater purpose that you cannot understand and do not wish to fathom, for whatever purpose binds you, it has not been kind.
You are love. You were mortal once, you were ordinary, and now you are the incarnation of love upon an earth which did not love you. It hurts you to be so irreperably separated from the earthbound folk whom you can no longer call kin. You loved the world so much that you grew beyond it.
