i. when you fall in love with an angel, you must understand that there are things you will not understand.
ii. when you first go to run your hands through his hair, his halo will slice your palm. and it will
hurt. he will will mend it with the touch of one golden finger, and will leave so abruptly that he is gone almost before you blink. the last thing you see will be him standing in the doorway, a terrified expression on his face and blood in his hair.
(later, he tells you that he didn’t realize how breakable humans could be. when he explains what it takes to make an angel bleed, you start to understand.)
iii. ask him about the sky, about stars and suns and galaxies light years away, about how the universe looks like a blooming garden.
do not ask about lucifer, because your angel will become a soldier before your eyes.
do not, do not, do not ask about god.
do not ask about rebellious older brothers and absentee fathers, do not infer about a war you know nothing of.
iv. in a science class you are taking simply to get the credit, your teacher will be talking about quantum physics. she will call planets “celestial bodies” and suddenly you will only be able to think of the way his mouth curls in at the sides, of all the puckered scars that criss-cross his torso, of the graceful arch on the bottom of his foot. when the teacher calls on you and asks you if you are alright, you will flush an even deeper red.
(at times it is lovely to be in love with an angel. but other times, it is not.)
v. when you fight, it is like the world is ending. his anger conjures a thunderstorm, and soon the entire state is three inches deep in water. you shatter a picture frame. a bolt of lightening catches the house across the street on fire. you are screaming at the top of your lungs—something about duty, something about god—and there is a crash of thunder that shakes the house. the weathermen talk about the storm for days, and you change the channel.
vi. then there are the times when he doesn’t visit for months on end, and when he finally comes back to you, he is not himself. there are new scars across his chest, and he does not speak. he sits with you in his arms for hours, his nose buried in your hair and his arms squeezed tight, so tight.
he does not cry. you do not cry.
you do not cry.
vii. when you fall in love with an angel—oh, sweetheart. it’s too late to take it back now.
—
on falling in love with an angel || m.m.c (via qhotes)
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