There’s honey in the sky and milk on my tongue. You’re all sharp planes and jagged muscle, but your eyes are soft and languorous kisses bespeak an endless lake of serenity deep within your heart. I’m bending over backwards for you and becoming nothing more than a sandcastle being eaten away by your river, and your eyes are the green of the sea glass I find on your shores, some deep, long-polished reverie of fish and teeming underwater life.
There’s dawn, and then there’s dusk, but they all meld together when I’m in your arms, out of harm, only alarm the heat in my inner moon kingdom that is usually such a lunar freezing nebula of isolation and meditation. My blood is quickening, your hands are working me like Vivaldi playing a violin, and as I grasp your shoulders all I can do is moan your name like a mantra. I channeled you the other day when my boyfriend was drunk and you argued over rye-blend whiskey and talked of biodynamic lightning rods and Barakiel, war and peace, and a bunch of other crap I don’t remember because being your vessel turns me into an overcooked noodle. I’d much rather meet you in this between-space of the fourth heaven, where rolling meadows and autumnal trees meet water. There’s daisy beneath your Hercules body and we’re tussling, turning hay, and I have a mouthful of angel feathers on my lips that taste like snow and miracles.
Nothing makes sense with you. I bleed onto your flaming sword statue every fortnight and offer up the essence of my life itself, red beads stained on your icon, but you’re much less flame and brimstone and more Jedi monk. What do you like? Beer. Steel-cut oatmeal. Fighting and athletics. Meat, especially steak. Pretty women. Gardening. Asceticism. What do I like? Poetry. Pleasure. Decadence of the senses. Sex. A great story. We are absolutely nothing alike, you patient as a sage, me impulsive as your brother, me flighty and creative, you a stick in the mud and devoted and grounded. You’re always plucking me from the stars and calling me Icarus because bright shiny objects captivate me beyond imagination, but honestly, ultraviolet king, you are the shiniest jewel inside of my collection and when I die, I will spend eternity in your heart, Shakti to your Shiva Nataraja, dancing upon the wheel of karma as our lives play out like drops of rain on this lake you always take me to.
The Bell Trees of Paradise are tolling, and you are firm and toned and dedicated to physical perfection, and by god how many times do you hit the heavenly gym. I don’t like muscular guys, not really, or redheads for the matter, and the first time I saw you at 12, a scared girl projecting out of her body to spiritual warfare, you scared the crap out of me with your grimace in blood and rock hard armor and biceps and sword with the glory of the devas. Wait, crap, devas aren’t your religion, are they? But the way the flames dance on the tip of your blade remind me of dakinis, or maybe the fey, something wild and untamed, a fire at Beltane.
Making love to you is something I do often, on a nearly daily basis, and when I told my Catholic friend – way before we were together – that for some reason I kept seeing the Archangel Michael in the shower, she laughed and said I better not tell my boyfriend I was seeing men while I was bathing naked. It’s not really like that, I just see you as this brilliant blue-purple star and sometimes you rest on my palm or kiss my cheek with electricity or distract me in class. I’ve seen Samael in the flesh, multiple times, but you are more the hands that push me back from a cliffside or the cool of water and ecstasy of fire in my innermost organs and bones. Honestly, you feel like a freshwater ocean of the purest water, and however much I swim in you, I’m never lost. You are strength, the Lion of Judah, and I could go on and on but I’m just beating a dead horse to death. I think I must have repeated every praise already, every tricky metaphor, and that nothing new will ever span between us, just this burning love and impassable bridge of ice.
And then you surprise me.
The autumn turns to spring, the roses unfurl, and your body blossoms into the curves of a woman, the noble maternal form that rocked me in Heaven’s throne when I was a pudgy putti in diapers, except now I’m straddling her and this is a clusterfuck, but in a good way. Goddamn is my sexuality confusing. I’m gay for Lilith and Hela and Sam’s female form and now I have another bombshell to add to my is-Allie-bi list or does she just think girls are hot.
I’m too entranced to stop kissing you, but you pause, and your hair is curling long auburn to globes of breasts with pink areola and a cunt I would die for.
“I rarely show this form to mortals. Remember, I really have no gender – angels are androgynous. You need to explore your passions further to master your polarities.”
“Fuck. Should I call you Michelle? Does this make me bisexual?”
You laugh like a windchime. “Stop trying to label your heart. I came to you in this form in your childhood years for a reason, remember?”
“Because I was afraid of you.”
“Are you afraid of me anymore?”
“Always. I fear for you. You’re terrifying. And tragic. Your love is the glue that holds Heaven together.”
“Forget all that. Here is not the place for fear. Here, we are beyond fear and want. There is only desire.”
Your eyes are hooded and your chest is beating out a rhythm that matches mine. I sink into you and we meld like yin and yang. We’re swimming together now, dancing on a flaming sword – two angels can dance on the head of a pin, and we are infinitely small but tall as eons, covered in eyes. All I know is that my love for the divine defies gender, defies appearance, and my love for you is eternal, abiding, agape, and I burn for you.