Have you ever perched on a brick wall waiting for the sky to fall on the world and wondered if it's all a little less real than it feels, because really, who can see the world as we know it from the perspective of a god?
I have been waiting for someone's fresh perspective to resurrect the perfection of the delicate inflections of your vowels; your vocal chords have always been more musically inclined than mine (I was never meant to sing), and you were created to soar, wings beating, presence fleeting, waiting for a sign (you, my dear, were always mine).
Do you ever wish for the sun to expand just for the sake of seeing the land you've grown up on consumed by a flame (leaving the world a maze, hearts ablaze) seeing love vanish through the seas of fire, of lust and desire and passion and your eyes are mired in the quiet beauty of ash.
You were never a creature of earth, truly, your birth was of the air, darkness twisting through your eyes and hair and your skin the pallor of despair. You were always one for breaking the laws, defying the gods, determinedly beating the odds, because what else could you do, with the night caught in your voice and the moon where the sun should have kissed your skin?
(I have never quite understood.)