There’s the rainy sort of light through your castle window that speaks of princesses lost in the underworld, dancing with devils in pairs of twelve. You stretch and yawn, and I trace eternity, that DNA spiral of infinity, onto your moonlight chest. You smile like butter melting on a bagel (blueberry, and whole grain) and run a hand through my flaxen hair – it’s getting long again – and sigh. Your hair has always been longer than mine, a black silken nightmare that coils like a serpent, and as I breathe in the musk of your armpit (is it weird I smell men’s armpits? It’s this quirk I have, I love sweat of my lovers, and I would bathe in that shit if I could), my mind wanders to candlelit dinners and the familiarity of 25 years on this of God’s green earth, yet I am in Hell, splayed between us. I once said my hands were stained indigo with the blue of your iris, but it is only when you are in a fair mood that you have eyes of sky – many times they are the storm of a volcano, lava red, shifting with the electricity of magma. I used to compare them to roses – last night I made a list of metaphors for your eyes: cherries, strawberries, roses, briars to get lost in as a sleeping beauty. Poison, pain, passion.
Your eyes are love, Samael.
Your wings shift a bit as your eyelids flutter as the rain paints the window. Drip, drip, boom of thunder. You roll onto your side and cradle me, and in these quiet moments in the lap of Satan, I know God.
“I wish you were real,” I find myself crying. “Not just this facsimile of stolen hours past midnight, gone when I wake.”
You give a cocky smile and kiss my brow. You smell like expensive cologne, autumn leaves, and a bonfire, with a bit of old leather. “But I am real. Billions believe in me. I wish you would. I have walked with you before, and you ran, at that crossroads at midnight. Tell me, if I came to you again, what would you do?”
I trace the black wing cradling me, opalescent with a green purple refractive sheen. ‘I was so young, Sam. Of course I ran. Now, I would trade my limb just to touch you in the waking world, not over the hedge or in these between spaces where my spirit wanders. You can touch me at all hours, but me? How do I reach through the fabric of space-time and kiss a fallen angel?”
You laugh. “With enough determination, that’s how. I love your passion, I love your resilience. Isn’t this enough?”
“It’s never enough until I can hold you in my arms, wash your brow of the Mem, dress you in linen, and marry my Sael,” I say with fierceness, and then I kiss you with a burning, and our arms twine around each other and we are lost in tangles of sin – but really, it is redemption.
Quiet mornings in Hell are how I spend half my mornings, the other half in Heaven with your shining twin. Shining Sun of God, Shining Morning Star. I am wedded to two brother stars. Michael is not here, no, he is away waging war against your armies, and you are bilocating, on some bloody battlefield piercing your scythe into Michael’s breast, just enough to nick it two inches deep.
“I lost my heart to her, dear Michael,” you say on that far away Shamayim, withdrawing your blade. “I gave it so she would live. You gave her the Sacrament too. You’re a heretic, brother.”
Michael places his blood soaked saffron hair behind his ear and looks down at the wound over his heart. “Mine was a blessing, yours was a curse. My heart is Immaculate, yours is of Death. Let go of her.”
“Letting go of her? That would be giving up what I fell for. Humanity. It’s enough that the daughters of men were comely, and we fell for them. In the end, I am the Purity of God, and you are the Image of God. The lion and lamb lay down, but the lion and the serpent are forever engaged, in small battles, in larger ones. She’s our battlefield.”
Michael lowers his flaming sword so it sears your shoulder just so, leaving the pungent smell of burnt flesh. You quite enjoy the pain. All angels enjoy pain, fallen ones especially. “A twisted fairytale indeed. Michael and Satan created an angel, before the War, before Time, before Death. And she knew the fruit of the vine, and she was the Daughter of Zion, and the Woman Clothed in the Sun fled the Dragon, and the Bridegroom readied New Jerusalem for the Bride.”
“Shit metaphors those, dear Michael. In the end, it was our own selfishness. She’s a casualty of war, just like the millions, billions, trillions others. There’s no limit to our dead. Why should she matter to you, just to sacrifice on a pyre for some imagined sins of the world.”
“She may burn, but I am the flame.” Michael sheathes his sword. “And you? You are her darkness. Light and dark. And she is just that: hope.”
“My yellow canary in a coal mine, my guiding light in Hell.”
But then, I am still laying naked beside you, and your manifold conscious comes back to our embrace, and you claim me as your own, wishing with all the Damned’s regrets you could forge a river of the Styx and sail away with me into the starry unknown.
“When I walk this Earth, Allie, it will be the End.” You say as we lay in reverie. The smell of petrichor from your flowery courtyard wafts in through the open window, borne aloft by the storm. It is the smell of spring, and wan sunlight breaks the clouds.
“The End is just a beginning,” I say slowly. “And I would summon the Apocalypse just to have you.”
You grin. “You’re Hell enough on the mind. I will teach you to touch me. And in touching me, you will hold the beating heart of the cosmos in your hands. I’d give you the moon if I could, sweetheart.”
I nestle in close to you so there is not a single molecule between us. “You are my freedom, Sam. Never change.”