Even an Angel Takes Her Cigarette Breaks
The way ash falls like snow, you’d think
a sort of purity underscored
her habit. Yet there is in her
hands a trembling, a quiver like
the first time a soul feels the weight
of flesh. She breathes smoke and
pauses the symphony of celestial
duties – for a moment, the heaviness
of wings is gone, replaced by
a hush, an exhale. The aftertaste
of burnt offerings lingers like a
prayer unanswered. Watching her,
I wonder how even angels carry
their quiet wounds. She flicks ash
into oblivion, each speck a small
betrayal, a concession to the
brutal, the divine. She smolders,
engulfed in the frail light of
dusk, where even the holy
find shadows to steal them away,
if only for the span of a single drag.