Angel by Lostgirl

He stands in my doorway, Will you go to lunch with me?

I ask rather that we walk outside.  He watches as I stand, as I walk.
He slips my hand into his empty one.  My thumb brushes the warm,
yellow gold.  He had once taken it off for me.  See, the mark would
still be there, he said.  I was satisfied.

He wants to sit and I choose a place in the sun.  Aren't you warm?
The building is cold, this feels good, I tell him.  I have slipped so
quietly into his empty hours and empty arms.  He tells me I am the
rain to nourish his parched soul, but do I not also cling onto the
tender leaves during my journey, relishing their velvet caresses?
Have I have not meandered into quiet nooks here and there to claim a
moment of precious shelter?  I am very aware that I am not the one who
gently etched the path I travel.  Against my cheek brushes an echo of
true love.  

The skeptic, I have only to look over his shoulder to see the angel.
She smiles at me and offers me a seat by her fire.  I keep returning,
to warm myself.  I have been feeling so cold.  I cannot stay long, I
tell her.  She nods.  She is satisfied.

Gratitude pools up in my eyes.  What's wrong?  The sun, I'm not used
to being in the sun.  We could go inside, he says.  No, I don't mind,
I need to spend more time in the sun.  The angel is still there, she
is in his every touch, every kiss.  I receive offerings that had been
set aside for her.  Or am I a gift to him?  Angel, what am I supposed
to do?  What are we supposed to do?

"Live," she replied.
