What kind of angel courts the Sun in winter,

Only to take out her parasol

in the hottest days of summer?

She chased fleeting glimmers and stolen

sunlight from the tops of willow trees

He turned her brown eyes into rich chocolate

flecked with gold. He never asked, but she knew—

He wanted more than friendship, and she stopped.

            terrified of his heat, so warm and bright and

Dangerous.

If I told stories

about a battlefield home

and the searing

heat of cross-fire,

Maybe you’d understand,

But my wings have been singed

too deeply to fly your way,

And my heart is much too

Weak

So my parasol stays open

and we stay

separated, regretting the lie you sent

In the warmest days of winter:

“We were talking about what an angel you are.”

Read nineteen months ago.