to love an angel: anatomy of admiration

my angel is the sun, and i am the moon. sure both are dazzling, yet the moon is not the one who enlightens universes. i can't help but wish that she could feel the sting of living in the orbit of a star like her. i love my angel but green eyes creep over my shoulder and poison dripped lips whisper blasphemy into my left ear, i'll swat the monster away but it's already made home in my bones.

we both have brown hair and baby bangs, yet her nose slopes softer than mine, akin to how our eyes resemble one another's yet her heart is a warmer place than mine. everybody wants to love her and i do with the kind of affection only one who's been eclipsed can. i don't blame my angel for her divine rays, even though my burns will develop into melanoma i know that she will hold my cold hands as i approach death.

i keep a lock of my angel's hair in a bottle, i wear its essence on my neck, temples, and wrists, as if it could make me even a fraction of all that she is. i lay basking in her light even though it only heightens my shadows. my angel lives a godhood that isn't set in perfection but rather her ability to bless my imperfections, i hope that one day some of her may spill out and purify me.

my angel promises me eternal friendship as she plaits my hair but even her whispers sound like hymns. i cling to her brilliance whilst she sleeps next to me—but her presence remains untouchable and my palms can't encapsulate her effortless glow.