I will give my lover this; he does nothing by halves. If he drinks, it is expensive hard liquor he tosses back like cheap shots. If he gets high, it’s on uncounted pills that sink him into a sleep as deep as the dead. If he fucks, it is fervently, anonymously, dangerously. If he hurts, it is never just one punch, but blow after blow until knuckles split and bruise. And if he loves, he loves with body and heart and soul, all-consuming, submissive and possessive.
You were the first, weren’t you. Emerging from their caves in the dawn of time, the earliest humans must have blinked tears away as they stared into your brilliance. Huddled at the mouths of those same caves at night, they must have tracked your progress across the awesome night sky. Rising, setting, waxing, waning, you before all else must have first captured the attention of the collective human psyche. Thus you have been in our blood, our bones, our very DNA since we first began preserving our mythology through cave paintings and storytelling. You are the precursor, the archetype. You are older than the oldest, gods of a thousand times a thousand names and a thousand times a thousand forms. And yet you have but one story – summer to winter, night to day, life to death to resurrection, the great wheel ever turning.
“Don’t call me that,” you say. “I’m no angel.” But you’re wrong. You think I call you Angel as a term of endearment, homage to your sculpted form or unearthly eyes. That isn’t true. I call you Angel because you are like Lucifer himself, so determined to remain free, abhorring any kind of fetter. You jealously guard your autonomy; you covet free will beyond all rationality. You love me, I know you do, and yet the moment you feel less than absolutely in control you fight back, sometimes with words, sometimes with absence, sometimes with a blade. At even the barest hint of a future theoretical threat you make sure I understand in no uncertain terms that you can, and will, disappear from my life without a trace. That is why I call you Angel. Not because of your beauty; because beside you even Lucifer would feel shame for letting himself be cowed.
They say at the end of that long road You knelt, naked, humbled, stripped of all that proclaimed Your queenship and divinity. They say this, but I can’t quite believe it. What need have You of robes and bangles, jewels and rings? You would stand as tall and haughty whether You bore a crown or not. No, I think You gave up Your raiments so willingly because they meant nothing to You. Naked and unarmed You came before Your sister, yes, but I do not think You bowed Your head or averted Your eyes. I think She struck You down because You were still a queen, still in command even in a hostile realm with Your body on display for all to see. You descended in arrogance, and in arrogance You ascended when Your life was returned. You can be called many things, Lady, but not humble. Not meek. Not vulnerable. Whether dressed in Your finery or brazenly naked, You remain the uncontested, dauntless Queen of Heaven.
I had the sudden urge to touch you today, an overwhelming desire to take your face in my hands. My hands, not anyone else’s. I imagined it the way a mother might cup the face of her son when he is grown, knowing he is long past protecting but wanting still to smooth the worry lines from his brow and the corners of his eyes. I saw it so clearly, my raised arms, your bowed head. I could feel the hint of stubble on your cheeks and the light tickle of your hair. I touch you through proxy, I know the shape of your mouth and the curve of your jaw from another’s fingers, but this was different. The hands I used were not borrowed, but mine; small, beringed, unsteady. The longing came and went in the space of a second, but the memory of what my own hands touched lingers.