The grimness of achromic knuckles driving against thin folded sheets of anaemic skin— bloodless, as been spilled the cruor of intelligence upon this star’s unsound surface; a shallow shell expressed by famine, militancy and the oppugn versus grindstone’s survival. Washed-out hands replicating the leather binding of the book they carried, stroking the neck by the nails— blinded he felt, coveting sightless reveries and mental pictures of tomorrow’s end, where the fields were barren and impoverished of growth. ‘What I consider feeling, and compassion, and emotion and just plain being in this world, they consider pathology and blight and madness, and something just plain worthy of extermination,’ the page’s words read, conceptualized by the self-observant philosopher of one’s world— fleeting within the conserved mind in autistic dreams.
The paper spritzed with waterfalls, a cascading, drifting whirlpool of unsettling emotion that he semblances by the faint, dull lines illustrating the low scoop of his sharp jaw— puzzled in stretched sentiment. He is awaiting, wondering tomorrow’s end commensurate to its fortuity, vacuous eyes drinking in the waltzing letters even through the adventure of colliding shoulders. He briskly insufflates, however unnoticeable to himself, the existence pending to his left flank inadequate to passing his plentiful silhouette in advancement to the bookstore’s register.
—they are what I am apprised of, on mornings bereaved of their anomalisms, foremost, your golden locks— they spill through terminal appendages, teem meretricious in formation, and I lift them to inhale, breathe in the mourning life that left our hands and inculcates heaven in your curlicues, and goodness do I live— live the reverence that terpsichorean abstractions have them dance with, in reverie of dreams and conjurations of adulation, and there I watch upon the coast as with the rising tide my hands pursuit the exodus of sand-benches and the repudiation of gold’s withdrawal in amorous advance (is it that you desire for me to cruise; to come gather you with open hands there as you leave footprints in the sand, is it that you seek for me to confiscate when the water fills the indentations alike breadcrumbs being picked by sparrows, the trail fading as you dance in to distance) — as you move, glide within crepuscule denseness of our mantilla of silk, decline upon our smoothness forcing your awakening for there, I am caught within you, I stir you, quiver you, toss you, tremble you and shake you for the morn is numbing without you yet you are of numbing force that I lay still, quietly anticipating for you to absorb me and for me to sink within you, for you to press in to me and for me to welcome all of you as still that miracle is caught within the fists of me as closer do I fall in to you, inside you, within you as all there is of me is there as always was, is, and shall be.
She, was Mother.
Not only to her own classification of offspring, not alone her kindred laid underneath adamant guarding of her arms— no, as well had he found gratification in her loving arms, an embrace of invitation, that of warmth and glowing hospitality, that where he had required emotional assistance she was there to provide him shelter, a refuge in roost to his progression— she could accept his silence and his oddities, that of the wondrous androgynous split-mind and that of the quiet, speechless man he was to be in alliance of humane organizations. Someone he had missed, someone he needed as constant in his suave, courteous epoch of this existence upon earth, a contradiction for who was he to be in doubt of now existing in his serene endless slumber, of how no longer was he steadfast to the ground, and had rather drifted between worlds of wonders, and yet there was she, she he had thought long to be gone from his welcoming embrace as equivalent to her touch would he assure her of her easeful endurance through ages. Yes— how had he thought of her, through absence, through her endeavours of the French leave as without word had they gone separates, this an undeniable factor residing at both sides, he was not to renounce on. Fingers clutched on to the chest, a silvery-grey fabric rising up higher by the stomach as by appendages he lifted. His gaze above; he would see her again, not only within skies and nightly canvases of dark maroon, azure and blue in tints and shades of grey, no, she was to be there with him.
He would send her coordinates to her cell-phone, in doubt if she still took to maintaining his number. None other but these, in secretion to the set location they both had known before, in which he danced amongst flowers, the poppies and the roses, the lilies, and his favourites; the carnation, the garden of their lives and the enclosure of biennial seedlings, vines, and weeds alike in one compact, enclosed confinement of this terrace within areas no longer secluded, but those rarely visited by steps of others.
[text message ↣ anna marie]
+34° 26’ 5.11”, +135° 33’ 12.51”
In a world that only existed deep within depths of the mind untouched for many years now, that is where this music was born from. Kamijo was by nature a musically-tuned creature. Always did he need to hear melodies or hum random little bits to himself at the very least should he not allow his fingers to rove over the gilded surface of any one instrument such as the one he was now allowed to harp upon with freedom. Music was very much as attached to his soul as any emotional component that deemed one alive and of humanity. Music was alike to his rational mind that spoke in words, only put to an imagined tune fashioned from some deep corner of his being that worked solely to compose bits of music for both leisure and for performance. Long ago in the years which were of Kamijo’s angelic reign in the highest of rankings in this vast land of holy beings, he had used this ability for Kisaki. For his brothers and sisters. Many times in those days had the golden haired creature sat upon his high horse and composed songs of worship as well as simple songs for leisurely vocal stretching. Those songs had been heard by all; looked upon by his siblings as an iconic piece of work that perfectly held to what high standards should be expected of Seraphim. Even amongst those that shared equal class with himself, Kamijo was the gifted child who could easily surpass all others in vocal range of emotional output into a single lyrical word. He was the one who had led choirs of angels in their direction, providing what songs they sang for their own worshiping time of the Father. Once upon a time, Kamijo had shared his musical spirit with the heavens and the whole Kingdom had been led by his ability.
Those times were long past. The heavens had not heard his superior singing voice since the night before he came to be cast down into the newly birthed lands of earthen soil. Heaven and all those who inhabited it, they had not heard the music of their most gifted golden entity until this moment. This moment in which the fallen angel was seated so precariously at the piano bench with hands dancing fluidly over each and every smoothly polished key. With eyes closed in jubilance of his reunion with a long lost musical friend, Kamijo was bringing forth his comeback performance. This marked the beginning of what was, in his mind, the celebratory attainment of his homecoming after eons of absence. So long had he been forced to wander the earth alone and without the slightest idea of where his new settlement should take roost, that he had become a wanderer. Vagabond creature of divine origin without the icon of that divinity to at least bring himself some comfort in the tougher days of exiled abandonment. For many many centuries, Kamijo had traveled without destination. And in those long years of wayfaring, he had become increasingly distant to his musical soul. Occasions came and went in which the fallen creature would touch upon a violin or a harp, play a few notes, and then withdraw. Music was for his Creator. Kamijo only wished to play it for Him, otherwise the meaning was muddled. Singing, however, continued to be one of the talents Kamijo openly and consistently put on display both for his own self-appreciation, but also for the boastful rights he claimed over his own ability. For none upon the earth had such a voice suited to carry notes as beautifully as he did, and always there was a flock who surrounded his figure when his mouth opened in song.
Now he had that chance; that one that long ago he had been stripped of on his downward tumble to the brown soils of the earth’s richly nutrient laden ground, he would not allow it to pass him by without a full pledge of his very most stringent effort. Even as it may have been eons of disengaged harmony with his musician’s spirit, Kamijo showed not an ounce of discord in his current performance. Not a note was left off the path of his melody, and not a finger tumbled on their rallying up and down the scales. There was nothing in his music that pointed to a lack of practice over the years, nothing at all. Where most individuals would have become rusty with millennia of halted musicianship, Kamijo only showed how much music thrived within his very core being. A great deal of his existence was a constant revolving orbit around the musical creation that he possessed great talent over and as such, he certainly proved to both himself and his redheaded male of an audience just how beautifully he was able to retain his competency over the instrument he now played on so grand a scale. Lost in the music of his mind he was, earnestly falling to enjoy just how the music in his mind outwardly projected itself by his own two hands into audible tones that all could listen to if they so allowed an ear to be opened up to the piano’s chords. Just as with each and every surge of inspiration that hit his subconscious, the muscular body that held constant flow over the white and black polished piano keys swayed efficiently with the music. It was an outflow of his own joys at being able to produce such beautiful music once more in his life, and even more joyous still that the beautiful music came out at such a time when his most dear Kisaki was the sole witness to take heart what tunes were being played.
As for the ideal that a song was one way in which an individual was free to convey a message, story, or series of otherwise unexpressed emotions within a single soul, Kamijo felt that this song held nothing of that sort. Perhaps he had some meaning running sublimely through the composition that suggested his everlasting love for music and the elation he was currently bearing within his chest at the gift he was granted in returning home for a visit to last as long as he so desired it. Of other emotions rushing to be heard within each played note and octave, if there was any such thing, the fallen angel was not aware of those. With each moment of that impeding silence that had gathered, it allowed the imaginary cloud to lower closer and closer onto the ground’s solid surface where the angel would have to undoubtedly step off and venture back into his reality.
It was only then that Kamijo allowed for his eyes to once again rise to the monochromatic tones of the room that surrounded both males as their sanctuary upon the high heavens, the restless azure color glimmering more brilliantly than it had when the angel first began his musical journey along the road to his home’s true embrace. With these shimmering jewels of sight, he witnessed the crimson male that had summoned him here with a hand clutching an apparent force of muscle upon the glass that was within its grip. Eyes were closed and it gave the fallen beauty the impression that the song he had been so deeply surmised in delivering had not only entranced himself, but also managed to ensnare the deity within its complex melodies. This did not last much longer than a few seconds, however. Kisaki quickly bounded out of that parallel world in which he momentarily lived, his eyes alighting when he raised his eyelashes and returned the gaze Kamijo was gracing him with. There seemed so much written in that gaze of amber colour. So much that the deity had managed to touch upon within himself just by hearing the melodies played out of the piano’s labored sounds. Or perhaps it was something more; was it that Kisaki had somehow become more directly in tuned with what emotions Kamijo had felt to express through the song? What exactly had the deity experienced through the music of his fallen creation? Whatever it was, Kamijo was certain of one thing only; that the deity had found something and experienced some sort of revelation and understanding within the aria. The music had spoken to him in one way or another and for that the fallen beauty felt some accomplishment. Music was nothing if the one who brought it to life could not stir up the thoughts and emotions of anyone who opened their ears to it.
The fallen angel had expected many a reaction to his lively little private performance from the deity, but for the words that did spill forth from those plush red petals, the blonde could not help his confusion from budding into a full grown sprout. What was he talking about, exactly? These words that filled the gap between them, reaching over distance to enter the ear beneath blond curls, what did they mean? Certainly the deity was not telling Kamijo that he was allowed to bear fruits of hope for something that had been long ago stripped away from his fleshy body and promised to never be returned. “A true angel, I hear you say.” Kamijo began, his voice slightly lowered in volume as his confusion kicked down the confidence that he had been slowly building up since arriving in this place. “Make me a true descendant of heaven once more.” Kamijo’s eyebrows furrowed only the slightest bit, everything in his intelligent mind whizzing and whirring to try and piece together the meaning that these words must mean, even though it was already a clear announcement. Kamijo understood just fine, and yet it was an unbelievable statement. “To grant upon me what was long ago ripped away from my own porcelain flesh?” The fallen creature finally let the question fall from his own thin pair of petals, vagueness having no room for play in such a moment of serious conversation. “Do you truly mean what you say, Tadashi?” Close to tears, the fallen one was by this point in his interrogation. Tears not of sadness or distraught emotion, but those saltine drops that were typically shed when a joy was too great to hold within. Even if this was not a true possibility for himself to actually consider, the fact that his beloved Tadashi had found enough of his soul to be worthy for a suggestion of rebirthing that pure angelic side of himself that had long ago been snatched away, it was enough. Already Kamijo was put to a moment of pure happiness. “If such a thing were at all to be possible, then of what mind would I be to deny?”
—for that matter, in which sentiment would it suggest itself being an insurmountable circumstance, for he could achieve the unattainable, impassable discretions and alternatives that one of commonplace events could nevermore achieve, the idea not one of impossible probabilities, but rather that of choice. He could give anything, bestow upon this disgraced, seraphic spirit that of all his wishes, grand desires that none would ever held for granted— the choice had not be made, it desired not attention of that longer than scarce moments as was one to inquire of the fallen son wings to his return. Beautiful, magnificent beacons of incandescent light spread at his feet as to restrain the motions of their natural will, covering his eyes as to remain blind to he who dwells in unapproachable light, and two embryonic from his back, in indication of both flight and the hope towards things that are not possessed and the elevation above all existence that are not of the creator. Symbolizing the darkness of the intellect in the presence of the creator, symbolizing the blinding and the quenching of the affections of the will because of the creator, no— he found no wisdom in such arguments, for he was but a man of greater power, he was but a spirit constantly drawn closer between the terms of temptation and that of discouragement to the likeliness of that of mortal wisdom. He who ever thought of this, he who ever held word against liberation of themselves, yes how the angelic compass of this kingdom had now changed in terms of independence, great margins of discretion were fields of the elysian green, that of the blessed and fortunate, there they were upon to excurse through free will, there they were to look in to the eyes of the creator and there they were to form a sanction at his side. The voice of written words no longer was his prophecy and no longer held he the arms across the chest, for instead were they opened, welcoming, inviting life within from where it bloomed.
“Love, is my reasoning— endless devotion to the ones that have fallen through my fingers, have slipped through the relics of their age and there before expected time it seemed as if though mere stardust that they did consist of, fragile, delicate to touch was where no longer I had dared take grip upon my great members of our organization— nevermore had I desired to see you slip through those same fingers, to feel them as brittle and dry, left in the drought of my extinction, I had not wished for you to experience my downfall amongst so many of your brothers and sisters..,” the fingers left on the platform of his chest sunk down, utmost peaks rushing over fine polyester blackness in cascade of the heart, symbolization of how also he had fallen, how also he had precipitated, that no longer at that existing time aforementioned of contemporaneous passing had he felt heart, spirit or soul and was but a quiet existence amongst nothingness, as if he were voided in an oblivion none was ever to reach that far for. “To see my beloved ones choose their own destined decision, to no longer be able to grasp on to them, to no longer feel the softness of their flesh, the breeze in their exhalations of air when expelled from their lungs, to no longer—“ horrified was he, was the expression that took its wrongful place upon his characteristics, pulled down each corner of the mouth in to a sullen grimace of his personal vendetta that he kept against himself. He was not of grandness, not of greatness, no longer the man one so many held high hopes for, prayed for and to, sought answers with as no longer could he offer them as but a man he was, one not so different from those all of ribs and cartilages. The angel overlooking him would have known of this phenomenon, of where digits would now press against the ribcage, of where inlaid bone was to be embraced alike the stem of fair red roses amongst the flower in bloom, their thorns an obstruction to those who wished so to proceeded through the bleeding abscess that would beneath his topaz, the marble incised with instilled symbols and hieroglyphs of an age long forgotten— there would they burn, show through igneous blistering the impression of forgiveness, grace and justification of his heart’s true word, that perpetual crystal responding to the burn of flesh by one rightful throb. “I need not of you to fall, again, Yuuji…”
Hazel pierced through liquid azure stone, love flooding over like none had ever seen before, compassion leaking from the godlike eye in whiteness and lustrous, resplendent fluorescence that would return yet the melodic flow of harmonic tones that hitherto were induced by the angel himself through his fingers fleeting over the piano’s surface. It was what he had felt within that tune, that this one deserved something, would be entitled to something more outstanding, more preeminent in life but the barren fields he sauntered upon. Not the earth, not the skies, but the heavens he belonged to. In accelerated notion did he press the ridge of his rocker-glass against his thick lips, and submerged his tongue in the bittersweet liquid, the orange and the yellow lacquering his throat in a substantial coating that rinsed his speech of any upcoming cracks, and shattering. “I need not of you to fall, again, my Yuuji— therefore am I to gift you with the prodigious stateliness of wings greater than the earth, greater than your life before,” he spoke of trust, of dependence in this angel of whom the golden curls were now reached for by an outstretched hand palm, of whom the splendid locks were now encased within a timeworn hold that had seen many ages, many turns in hourglasses as if time had always spend its time awaiting at his side. Their volumes were of great descendent, of a warmth the indigenous hand sensed upon belonging to a greater force, of which the hand that held upon them flowered in its look, of which the skin stretched in a fine fit over the bone as if within the hand he held youth itself. Yes, he had meant all of his words— and of why the angel asked of their possibility he minded not as they were but star-struck words, those of disbelief of the offer, but not of disbelief within the godlike one. Rebirthing him, reincarnation, transmigration; they were but terms to him that spoke of unlikeliness, for this was once again a gift that he would make advances to, that he would go out of his way for, only for this one.
He positioned his now emptied glass upon the smooth white surface of the piano, the hand that had now freed itself rising to the seraphim’s cheek which was now cradled, thumb stroking past his fine composition, this marvellous artwork on display to many, but truly only to his heavenly eye. A kiss, would follow; one to the forehead’s center, blood-red cushions embracing the porcelain skin in all its wonders, whereas thin sheets of eyelids folded over both his blindness, and his vision as through heart-throbbing endeavours was it already that he saw— saw this angel and his true identity; the true right hand of him, a lifetime lover, brother, son and friend combined as no less of these terms could the golden one be spoken of. The thumb left on the cheekbone would ascend in its thin motions of rubbing over skin, and wipe the weeping tears astray, their pearls gliding down the bridge of stroking appendage entrusting this creation with his love. There he sighed, lips plastered to skin as their dryness in withdrawal made it less than possible for him to retrieve his rosette flesh from the forehead so seemingly they would wear their own will in remaining stuck there, yet not until longer of his retreating step. Silence was what had always carried them, for so many did their hearts already speak through physical connection, through sights on lock-on, through early vision risen in the morning or that of lateness within nights passing. Kisaki, turned by the heel in motion of the angel’s following, the hand resting opposed of the cheek cascading down the neck, its column, then the shoulder and the chest in his turn, perhaps only as notification to himself of the beating heart within the fallen’s concave. He brought that hand to his own nape and pressed, the pressure that was building there needing terms of satisfaction, atonement for the weight that gathered over centuries. It was to be released, all of it— at once Kamijo were reunited with his angelic self.
“Had you wished to proceed?,” he asked in doubt, still an undermining tone settled to his voice as these were to be the last moments which he was to spend with the angel’s unchaste self, his gaze following the astronomical expanse of white over the room, and it would appear almost as endless as preparing was he to turn this paradigm shift of chambers to one he knew to be of never-ending anaemia, of existing stainlessness in which all his angels had distributed their creative permanence. “Had you wished to determine your decision longer, I do understand. Had you wished, to longer linger within fallen bodies, I do understand. Time is your decision now, Yuuji.” Doubt, still— for a procedure as painful, as agonizing as this one where memories and present times conjoined in the programming, he had not wished upon anyone— it was not beautiful, not painless, not undemanding to heave of this child the wings through flesh, to breathe in life again within a son lost of himself, lost of the world, and lost of his life as a pure angel, and it was not a grand sight as to see the gathered blood to pool at both his bare ankles, to watch in agonizing gripe the scarlet as to sink down on the white back— to hold his child within these arms of mercy, to sing to him sweet lullabies of comfort as he wept, and to hush him of his worries as they would no longer be a constant in the angel’s life, for only, that was he.
etched on his body,
she was the girl with the
deep scent of purple prose;
they were each other’s favourite
form of written art.
Pleasant to the touch and with not a single thread of worry peeking out from either of the tactile components of which each was composed. Hearts sang a melodic tune that, by premonition of each water creature that glided in crystal liquids, was indubitably a song audible to more than just their own connection. It almost felt as though the very foundation of which the earth would steady itself on, was tied down with the union of their two hearts. Simply, otherwise, it was just the blond beacon’s own infatuation of love which rendered him one of such smitten fools often read about in the fictions of romance. Those feelings which accompanied the flight of settled vitals in the hand of another, they did so cause the every moment something beautiful to be appreciated.
Closer they lingered yet, drawing on the temperate fervor that settled upon each and every stretch of physical and emotional canvas. It was enough for the angel to smile once again against that nicely defined jawline, never quite allowing for the petals Kisaki did oh so enjoy seeing swollen lift away from the skin there. “If outside is where you wish to lead me now, then I have no qualm as to follow. Lead away, oh dearest red whirlwind of mine.” With the words being spoken, now Kamijo did find the will to pull away if only by mere inches; enough so as to look up into warm eyes as hands released hips and instead interlocked with the deity’s.
He minded not, the earth beneath his shorn feet, he minded, not the crisp harvest air gathering accumulated warmth from bare chest and legs, exchanging the incandescent sweltering of calefaction for exhilarating coldness, drawing pearl drops on his achromic skin, exasperating purified heat accepting the cold with welcoming hands, waves making way for numbing dew risen from the aquatic pond beside their homestead and scattering this uprising liquid over flesh withdrawn of colour. His hand held his angel’s, through steadfast yet wavering paces over soil and moist grass, each of the green blades tickling between his toes— there, how wonderful was it to arise from this forest generation, shed of manufactured product, loose of by man mass-produced fashion. Here in life he stood, amidst flowers, waters, and life created by his hand.
In silence he moved onward, his angel guided through autumn life, through freshness, and this held the crescent in his lips in upheld reference as no longer was he restricted to stoic, imperturbable expressions— it was through Kamijo that he lived, breathed, felt of the heart, spirit, and soul. “With your hand within mine, I know no other but to be… Yuuji,” through nostrils he inhaled, deeply, a turn upon heels allowing himself his other half’s azure gaze to penetrate him thoroughly, as for so easily permeable was he to the angel’s influence, “Yuuji, my most pure, my constant in life, I love you so greatly…”
The momentum of which atmospheric decorum naturally took flow throughout the air surrounding any individual, in this case the current which hovered most densely upon the angel and his beloved, surged with a sudden shift in matter. No longer was the ambiance of a playful and lovingly timid essence, for the moment the head of vivid scarlet had gained the unperturbed vial of undisclosed information directly from the lips of the golden creature, was the same moment in which the tables metaphorically shifted. Kamijo had not intended to rouse a genesis of balking concern within the deity, and was a major justification for the tones of lightheartedness in which he had adopted to deliver the news. Indeed, the angel had the feeble choice to shield the truth from his loved one of his undefended state by those who were in all ties still siblings of his disintegrated wing. The choice was there, yes, and yet Kamijo held no desire to pose glamors upon his words. A good amount of comforting would need to be ushered onto the seemingly-unnerved redhead, however, for this sudden spring of news.
"אנא אל תדאגו. אני מוגן היטב." was what found the exit through the vocal chords of the angel’s speaking ability. An ancient language that but few of the most faithful and pious perhaps still found concrete rationale to withhold an absolute proficiency of. Certainly, the tongue of an age long whisked away by flights of generations through the bustle of evolving introspection was no longer one many could identify with. Not immediately, at the very least. Rarely was there opportunity to put the ancient linguistic family to use, but it had never been obliterated from the long list of languages which the angel held part of his vast knowledge. With ease did he decipher the words spoken, and iterated those of his own for the deity to unravel from the velvet of his vocals. "יש לי מספיק הגנה" It was of utmost importance that Kisaki understand that Kamijo held no fear of what peril this vast land had posed against him the moment of his touching down upon the soils. " תאמין לי מילות, בבקשה. היה לי רזיאל שום סיבה להגן עליי. אני מבין. אבל אני בסדר ככה." The words in this language lost to the ages were spoken in full comfort, knowing very well that none would find ability to intercede within matters of private conversation. It was already a very solemn exchange, it needed no witnesses of it as such, or eavesdroppers.
Had the chance perhaps been allotted for further debate, the fallen wonder had not one doubt as to the deity’s inclination to rise from within the silence of his thoughts to put a firm halt to the order of his initial suggestion. However, Kamijo was a brisk one, and had already found the order being carried away by the neat bow and strut of low-leveled heels upon the clean dining floor. “Let us hope the chef is not of a dallying nature.” The angel now, in his continuing attempts to soothe the actively overzealous mind that sat with him at the table, took his turn to lift a hand of his loved one and press it firmly against the tender flesh of his exquisite porcelain-like cheek. This allowed his natural bodily warmth to permeate Kisaki’s palm. “You do know how much it is I love seafood as fresh as a morning’s catch. אני תמיד אהיה כאן.”
"אתה לא רואה את זה, איך אהבתי אליך הוא גדול יותר מהעקשנות שלך, שמילות העידוד שלך לא הועלו נגדי, שאף קביעתה או בנוחות היא מספיק כדי לייצב אותי. אני לא יכול לאפשר לך ללכת בחופשיות כזאת. אני מגן עליך לא משנה מה זה שאתה מדבר אליי מ, אני לא רואה איך אתה לא יכול להבין את זה, שאתה חושב על עצמך כמתמשך חיים כנצחיים תוך שרירית כל כך זה החיים שלך עדיין," still was he swallowing words— the endless immenseness cleaving to his inflections of sound of still oriental ilk, stress in his pronunctuation weighing heavy on the dry tongue, one a desert of its own if no sooner he had raised the wine’s crystal to his lips, the liquid within an equal gradation of saturated red against his lips, and nearly would the glass tremble between fingers held. "אתה הרבה יותר מדי עקשן." But how could he not be— the angel hinted still to poison, the contamination he was exposed to through the word of the glorious morning star, he who imposed faith, and trustful promises upon all, however through his ultimate decline no longer could hold word to his promise— so stubborn, that he was without doubt, and blind was he the great one for the adulteration still bane within the angel’s clearance. "אני אדבר לא יותר מזה. רק רזיאל ישמע על כך, ורק אתה תרגיש את זרימת האור דרך האצבעות שלי על הצלעות אני יצרתי עם דם שלי."
He would lower his glass back upon the table-topping, knowing of it to now pose threats to the fine, white tablecloth spread over its surface were he to keep it held any longer, and alternatively was the hand now raised against that fine, posh cheek concentrated upon as through the connection established between skin was it he could feel warmth blending with his personal inhabited temperature of modesty, and perhaps was it alone the fallen one himself amplified enough to raise fear, misgiving dread, and simultaneously heat, kindness, and unadulterated love against him— this enough for him to allow but thin skin-folds to enclose over his hazel gaze, in order as to focus on soft skin, so as to centralize attention on his interminable sentiment of infatuation. There was alone a time for them to await their order; a rich sea-food meal the seraph at current allowed himself speak of through lips of miracles, through tiers of sensational phenomenon that even he could see when seeing not a directional world through which one could strive themselves to make a living of. Kamijo was there with him, as he spoke of, through darkest night and brightest day, illuminating by himself when no longer the universes were allotted their sun and stars. Here he awaited that fate and welcomed it with arms wide open, with heart in halves as opened that it had, for only one. “אני אוהבת אותך,” was what was finalized, an end to his fear of love’s destruction, a promise that had gone by the outstretching fingers reaching for the neck so as to move along that curve with which it was established, fingertips pressing as to feel a pulse palpitate only for himself, and no one other.