An Autobiography of His Lover
This is my last life.
I don't recall how many lives I've lived, or even how I became human to begin with. Perhaps I was hiding. I don't know how I know this. I know that it is true.
My back has ached as far back as I can remember, which is longer than the lives or the deaths or the spaces between. I remember how I broke it to begin with, remember crashing shoulders first through the water and barely slowing until I hit the rocks.
I remember what it was like to be without earth and water.
Sometimes I can feel the wings at my back. I spread them and I smile, and I rememebr what joy was. Other days, I barely believe I was ever an angel at all.
There was a wife. Her legacy is roses, the only thing I can grow. Everything else withers beneath my touch. Then again, I was never one to bless the harvests, although I was fertile. That was not my function.
Strange to think that I am of my own blood. This last time. Dilute, barely there. Sometimes I remember the lives before. Somethimes I remember things that haven't happened yet. For the first time in a long time, I remember who I am.
This is my last life. It carries me to my first death.
I don't recall how many lives I've lived, or even how I became human to begin with. Perhaps I was hiding. I don't know how I know this. I know that it is true.
My back has ached as far back as I can remember, which is longer than the lives or the deaths or the spaces between. I remember how I broke it to begin with, remember crashing shoulders first through the water and barely slowing until I hit the rocks.
I remember what it was like to be without earth and water.
Sometimes I can feel the wings at my back. I spread them and I smile, and I rememebr what joy was. Other days, I barely believe I was ever an angel at all.
There was a wife. Her legacy is roses, the only thing I can grow. Everything else withers beneath my touch. Then again, I was never one to bless the harvests, although I was fertile. That was not my function.
Strange to think that I am of my own blood. This last time. Dilute, barely there. Sometimes I remember the lives before. Somethimes I remember things that haven't happened yet. For the first time in a long time, I remember who I am.
This is my last life. It carries me to my first death.