He’s not angel.
Not demon.
Just flesh.
I thought I would come to know
someone different: a hero perhaps.
In my mad moments,
someone inferior:
dumber,
meaner,
more annoyed.
Turns out he’s made of the same substance I am.
Wrong sometimes.
Right sometimes.
Always best when he’s not aware of it.
In the dark he breathes, sleeping,
hip pressed against mine.
I think of every person I have known:
the Pinterest ones,
the Pollyanna ones,
those who said mean things behind my back,
her. She was like me all along.
Not angel.
Not demon.
Just flesh.
***
Beautiful.