The moment when the angel’s foot begins to receive its weight, pressing slightly into the soil.
How the focus, for so long a soft tapestry of insinuated colour with contours as gentle as a breath, suddenly completes its slide into perfect sharpness. And though the eye has yet to alight on anything which belies this one’s celestial origins, the imperfections await unwitnessed like hereditary bone disorders.
Like bells, “I Am Not A Part Of You Anymore. I Belong To Those Whom I Am Among, All Those Who Shall Kiss Me On The Cheek And Bring Me To Eat At Their Table. Even Now, Already, We Are Different Completely.”
All of that is true, and what I won’t tell you of are the shapes I saw in your undetermined majesty, nor that today you’re as perfect as a clock. I shall have to cast you out if I am ever to get anything done around here. Go join the others before you on the Earth. You shall never understand all the ways that I have loved you, nor my gratitude for the ways that you have changed me.
Completion is like dragging myself through a gravel valley, tiny abrasions, the chalky dust matting my hair and leeching water from my skin. I shall always love you. But it will sting less after I can wash my face and begin scanning the sky for indistinct forms.