Have Faith In Me, In You
You're a god when my pupils dilate, an atheist in my peripherals. I try to kiss every step you take, so you stretch out the mornings in bed to the afternoon. Sometimes, when I speak words of sugar and fill your ears with worship, I see a prayer ghost across your stare. I swallow thickly when you notice me looking, sand in my throat as those eyes set like the sun and rest on your hands, fidgeting.
I try to shower you with offerings, little gestures that could be mistaken as inconsequential. But you always hated gifts.
Sometimes you catch me singing love songs in the kitchen. I'd open my hand to you in a theatrical flare, blessed when the clouds opened up and I were blinded by your smile. But it would always falter, and I'd sing louder when I'd catch the disbelief. I'd try to chase the serrated thoughts out of your head and bring you in for a twirl – attempting to embody the entire choir you deserved while you smiled like it hurt.
I adore you. I a

“If I had a penny,” a raven-clawed throat scratched the walls of the alley. A swirl of shadows slumped against a brick wall saturated in crime, sighing, smiling. Wings of bone and nothing in-between cast a broken shadow. Eyes like fire – staring through the breaks. His eyes. All his. Irises swimming in an almond of rot; black. Inhuman. Thinly affectionate.
Penniless.
“You'd have dirty hands.” She says.
“Atoned with copper.” He points, talon joking in accusation. Affection. She knows beyond it, sitting upon his shoulder and pawing at that head of red, black, and white. Absent, horn tilted magnetically towards. He would admit to the purr, like nails on wood. No need to inquire.
“Pretty glass hull coming to drop a 'hello' today.” He predicts, halo like soot drip drip dripping through his hair, puffs of deceased fire. Black, hard to breathe, untouchable. More than usual.
“The Pretty Thing who flies down every week?”