My Porch (cont'd 3)

Even when what we were conversing was talk of hell from angels lips, no moment felt so right. No moment as ironically terrible as this ever brought such a true smile up from my heart and across my lips. The only conversation in which the angel ever wept was one that would bring the first moment the poetic saint felt love.

Through the window, the sun is rising. A new day is on its way and we’re both going to be here to see it. The poetic saint and his brown-eyed angel. Always there for each other, they will always be there with each other.

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