Her porcelain skin, as soft as her heart, glistened in the moonlight.
Her head fell slowly, gracefully,
heavy with the burden of memory,
I opened my mouth to speak, but no sound came out.
All the sound in that silent room
was drowned out by the cries of her tears,
this one Prometheus, that one Lucifer;
all fallen from the face of Heaven.
In her chest burned a golden flame, purer than mettle.
And though my heart had long been burned to brimstone,
I could still see some few streaks of salvation in the ore.
But those few streaks were long faded,
perverted idols of what once was.
"Save me," I whispered to her.
The familiar angel looked at me, her lips still trembling.
As I confessed, I felt my words fall to my feet.
They were too heavy to reach her ears.
As I, too, was dragged to my knees thus,
she rose suddenly and without a word.
She turned and walked, a cloak of obsidian swallowing her away.
My sinful words clogged my throat, and I could beg no more.
As I saw her leave, I knew she was returning to Paradise.
As for me, the lock clicked into place, sealing my fate.
All that remained was a cold wind in my chest,
the last embers of which were long extinguished.
From this cold wind, I mustered one final plea,
as a breath upon a candle, a whisper:
"Save me from this perdition."
