On Angel's Wings in Poetry is the Window to the Soul...

There is magic within your slender fingers. The tips reach out so slowly, almost holy, and I start to shiver. What exists within me that could lure you from your lair? Would it be my tender, willing heart? Perhaps my anger turned white-hot boiling rage at the way he left you marked? Would it be that your fingers are more than just an avenue to play with the buttons of my shirt? The buttons of my heart? Is it that you wonder where my do-not-cross line begins and where it ends and where we truly start?
I would stand here naked, in the stifling heat of this cursed Summer without water if it kept you from him. Kept you from harm. It is the electricity that exists between your cursive grin, the innocence of you and his sin, and how I long to caress the wounds, tend to the scars. The ones hidden beneath your chest, your left breast. Straight, clean through to your tattered and weary heart.

Oh, there is magic still within your tips, and within your eyes there remains a faint glimmer and a soft glow. An ember still smoldering. Begging in hushed tones for a fiery inferno in which to be cleansed. Be clean again. Free of the mark. Rise up on angel’s wings singed just to the brink of death only to be stoked and stolen back across the line of gone. Across the sky and across every ocean. Beyond every star ever set to chart. Made over, growing older, until finally a pillar of fire meets you and the Earth. A true rebirth rising from the ashes of magic and of damage. A beautiful creature. A seraph of purity. Of pure beauty.

The one I will and have always loved.

Always fought for.

As always we are two worn, scarred hearts.

Beating so strong.

So very strong.. as one.

Brian Milici
March 21, 2015

May you always find your smile.