I miss you so much it burns.
Angels long to be born on earth to feel this pain.
The distance between us is also God's breath,
given so that we may know what angels only dream.
We sense this yearning as a mortal chest wound.
They see it with their eyes, as a folded gown
luminous saffron and scarlet.
They see twin sunrises bursting in blue emptiness
when they gaze into our melancholy.
Crinkled in frost on separate twigs,
we cannot imagine such unfurling
on exhalations of grace,
yet some formless honey inside us does.

When their pure love looks into buds and cocoons
where we swim in nectar, they see flowers.
And they envy us, not bitterly, but with
their own kind of entanglement

that they must be born on earth to unravel.
One petal unfolding in darkness here
is better than a thousand years in heaven.

I love you.

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