He’s an angel. This isn’t news to anyone who knows him. The boy, the man, who radiates sunlight through his smile, the warmth of a spring day in his eyes. When they turn red, it’s the color of the sun dropping below the horizon, letting the moon light up in the rosy afterglow. And every day, the sun comes back up, the angel spreads tawny wings over people who don’t deserve the protection. Merciful to all but those who try to clip his wings, warding them off with his light even when they deserve worse. (You're not sure which you deserve, sometimes, but he’s always there, you’re always the first one he’ll shield. He makes you better. You’d die for him, and he’d fall from grace for you.) She’s a storm. The howl of the wind as it threatens shelter, drenching rain carving pools into the earth. It’s her nature to destroy all she touches, or so she believes. Her lightning flashes illuminate one moment, then another, until she learns she gives light and strength to what needs to grow. She is more than destruction, and the thunder and wind now roars a warning to stay away from those cascaded in her rain. (You weren’t afraid of her, in all her terrifying strength and sombering lulls. But holding on to her was like trying to stop a hurricane. She saw the clouds in your eyes, took them into herself, and they’ll stay there. But the storm moves on, and you must, too.) She’s a goddess. Draped in a cloak of loss and wielding a dagger too heavy for her hands. The cloth is too heavy for her shoulders, yet she stands tall. The dagger stays firm between fingers, and she doesn’t let it strike if she can help it. Her lips speak in archaic tongues, her mind holds so much more. The world once worshipped her, but she doesn’t mind obscurity now. (You try to ease her burden any way you can. Lift the cloak from her form, soothe her fingers when the dagger twists from them. You still worship her, and she tells you that’s all the adoration she needs.)
Never Love A Wild Thing
