The night hears you, what you pretend not to ask, and the angel slips through the bars of your fingers and into your body.
If you must incarcerate her, at least sing unashamed. If the words form a hymn, allow your walls to reverberate.
You were nothing once but a clutch of steel and bones, a rusty silhouette passing itself off as a body.
Now you are a sheet of evening air billowed by her wings. Even in her sleep, her breath is enough for your skin.
The people watch your body for omens, and sailors navigate the ancient scars that hold your hide but the lines of the constellations have changed.
The moon hones its sickle against your shoulder blades. You are the darkest breeze, and there’s no telling what the wind might blow home.