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If I tell you to run, will the sound of your footsteps reach my ears first or will I watch you leave in silence? Will you turn your back to me or will you defy me one last time?
If devils can only reincarnate to hell and earth, what are the chances I'll see you again?
Like all living things, we belong in the ground where history folds into itself, where we can sleep peacefully. Little origami stars, imperfect in their individuality and perfect in their entirety, placed neatly in a glass jar and set on a shelf, forgotten but not unseen. Rest and wholeness within our reach, finally. Yet, I’d sacrifice an eternity of peace to be with you.
Angel, do you believe in reincarnation? For humans, I mean. You’ve seen me bleed, you’ve even seen me cry. Do you think something so fragile can exist for more than one lifetime?
The truth is, your power is not as deadly as it seems. Have you seen what happens to a devil hunter when they are touched by something alive? Yes, you have. I know you have. I was there when it happened. When my hand brushed against yours, and we were made vehemently aware of what it meant to stay alive. I have a conjecture, and it is this: when a devil hunter is touched by the living, they crumble.
I'm but a name on a cold window, only real in the absence of warmth. I'll soon be gone, and you'll live on.
It was a Friday night when you dragged your teeth across my mangled ribs. When we laid side by side on my bed with the AC on low, and you said you liked me. I said, this isn't how the story goes when I really meant, say it again .
Because when you kissed me through cellophane and again through feathered wings, I realized that being cherished is to be flayed open and laid bare for devouring. You are my Lazarus breath, my witness, my last demise. You sighed life into me and only then did I realize living could be so lethal.
Then you said, that's too bad, I still like you . Like you knew what my heart wanted to hear all along, like you could see right through me. Thin as rice paper. Like my whole existence fit into a glass jar, and you were admiring me against the light of the moon.
Our stories are book-bound, fixed between two coffin covers. Our pages are numbered and stitched tight with twine. The ending was written before the first page was read. We've heard the last note of this song, seen the end of this all-too-short road, read the back of the book, where our story is condensed into two short enticing paragraphs, and the plot is all but exposed.
Love really does make a man stupid. We know how this story ends, yet part of me believes there's still a chance I'll return to you.
You saw yourself as evanescent. I saw you as celestial. In this lifetime, who’s to say those aren’t tantamount. I used to think that if I couldn’t take you in with all of my senses, my memory of you would fade faster than I could run after you.
When sailors used the stars to guide their way through the night, perhaps they were actually chasing the sky. Just because Achilles never caught up to the tortoise doesn’t mean he never tried. Because that's how the story has gone thus far; wherever I've been, wherever I'll be, I'll come running back to you.
One dusk, under a bruised sky, you let me touch you through the veneer of black leather gloves.
We both know that the worst punishment to come from the heavens is not eternal death, but rather forced survival. We’re collateral damage from the aftermath of a war someone else enlisted us in — jagged rubble, shrapnel bones. Yet, when I ran nervous fingertips down your torso and over your hips, I only found tenderness.
You were never meant to be a weapon. It took forgoing all logic for me to see that you were neither a sword, devil, nor angel.
You were… You. Entirely you — pliable limbs, auburn hair, uncontrollable sweet tooth. When you lulled me in with your crooked smile and rose-brushed cheeks, I almost forgot that we were volatile.
You laid bare under the night sky, yet I was the one being exposed layer by layer under your crimson gaze.
Then you kissed my shielded hands and told me to be careful, as though we had not been tiptoeing around shattered glass to get here. Except, careful no longer meant “keep your distance” but rather take care of yourself .
Take care of yourself for me.
I’m learning how. Even though the rest of my life is realistically not very long, you’ve given me a reason to try. Because home is anything you can walk into, and you found your way into my heart. That is reason enough to live out the rest of my life.
Because that’s how the story goes. I catch you in the eye of a hurricane, the epicenter of an earthquake. And when you think you’ve run to the edge of the world, I’ll jump off the ledge with you.
That morning, I woke to a cerulean dawn and your arms around me. The sunbeams had not yet risen to caress our skin. In the sliver of empyrean blue, the world had yet to paint you in its image — it had yet to make you a devil. It had yet to make you mortal.
That morning, you looked like a dream, and I could almost touch you.
I realized this was love. In this life and the next, I love you, Angel.
If you believe that this fragile soul of mine can endure another lifetime, then I have one last command for you.
Run.
Come find me.
(I’ll be looking for you too.)