I’m not one for religion really.
But Angels I know are real; I’ve met a few.
One in particular is stuck in my head, and my heart, forever.
She is small in stature, big in everything else. She bounces a lot of the time, has impeccable taste in music, and rides the wave of her emotions like John John surfs off the shores of Hawaii.
I have a picture of her wearing neon green stilettos that are covered in matching green feathers, holding her phone standing next to the Lime scooter she’s about to unlock. A few minutes later we’re gliding through downtown Denver enjoying the blue and white reflections on windows that stretch toward the sky, with the wind on our faces, tripping on Lsd and taking in the late afternoon sun. About a mile later we’re south of downtown and heading toward Santa Fe art district, heading west on an entirely empty street - and there she is out in front of me with her long pink-tipped hair flowing out behind her, riding directly in the middle of the street toward the setting sun, framed by trees and cars on both sides. On her lime scooter with her ridiculous neon green heels. The image is burned into my mind forever, the orange glow of the Colorado sun behind her against the rocky mountains with her framed perfectly on the street, like the sassiest witch in the west. I tried to get my phone out to capture it but keeping up with her on a scooter, one handed, while on acid, just felt a little too unsafe for me. I doubt it would have stopped her though.
A few minutes later I watch her swerve past a person, then a pipe, then a door opening while she whips down the sidewalk toward a hi-fi bar that we step into for some music that she knows, and I’ve never heard before.
After walking a few blocks over for some mediocre Vietnamese food that we always joke about, we head back to her place, still on foot. The “Zen Den” as she calls it. A cute little upstairs apartment that she’s renting in a small house in Cap Hill. There’s a Yoga swing, a small unused fireplace, some of her art, and a gargoyle above us on the wall to go with the one tattooed on her leg, and a big bay window where I recently watched some spring snow fall in the form of big flakes, glimmering against the streetlight.
We hang in her living room listening to records, chat about the day, make out, cuddle on the floor, and I hold her telling her how I feel like I want to keep her safe. Later she tells me that’s something she craves and has been missing.
Just another Saturday night with my favorite fallen angel.
And now that she’s not around - I have these little memories of her; her bright eyes looking right at me, her tiny hands gliding across my skin, and that smile of hers. One of her thumbs is a little smaller than the other, and she always hates when she catches me looking at it. But I can’t help myself, because even though I am only an average sized man and my hands are not notably enormous - hers fit fully inside of mine and they’re too cute not to look at.
I still know exactly how it feels when she walks up behind me and puts her hand on my shoulder. Never pulling at my attention - but letting me know she’s there. And right now I can hear her voice in my head, reading to her son, the way she turned every page into a vibrant moment. Bringing energy to the words. I’d find myself listening too as she brought the stories to life. I’d want to hear more about what Tigger, Pooh, and the crew were up to while her son sat right next to her, giggling and asking questions.
Sometimes when I’m dancing, if I’m not feeling the vibe around me, or the energy of the people nearby, I close my eyes and think of her. How she bounces when she dances, and I can feel her there with me still.
In the bedroom she was fierce, soft, and dirty. Some of the sweetest candy I’ve ever had on my tongue. She was sweet and sour, tart and tangy; sharp with her tongue when she wanted to be, but silky soft when she was letting me close.
When we’d kiss, or make out, or fuck, sometimes she’d lick my face. Not repeatedly, and not with any sort of intent, she’d just stick her tongue out and lick me. Across the outside of my lips. It felt like she was just seeing how I’d react, or what I’d do next. She’d do it like a frog, just tongue out, lick, mouth closed. Then she’d see what I’d do. It always made me want her more but I have no clue why, except that her being a total goofball made me swoon.
But when she wasn’t playing games our lips would melt together and her tongue would glide across my mouth, tease my tongue and touch my soul. She’d pull me in and kiss me deep. Then she’d flip over and say something I definitely wouldn’t repeat at any dinner table I’ve ever sat at.
And she always peed with the door open. I remember on the very first night I met her, she walked into the bathroom and sat down to pee and kept talking to me while I sat on the couch. No shame with her, and she was almost always talking. The gift of gab she’d say.
She touched a part of me that I didn’t know existed, and it healed things in me I didn’t know were broken… and while I miss her always, she doesn’t really feel very far away.
And even though she is beautiful, sexy as can be, with a cute little booty, sparkling eyes and a devilish grin. I don’t ‘see’ her when I think of her so much as I feel her. The energy that was always pouring out of her onto everything nearby. It wasn’t like anything I’ve ever felt.
She would sometimes say “there’s beauty in mediocrity” - which I think was her succinct way to acknowledge that you don’t need accomplishments, money, or recognition to be beautiful. Something that may have been long forgotten in the family I was raised in. But it drove me fucking mad because she was talking about herself, and she’d make jokes about not being the best at anything. But there wasn’t anything mediocre about her. I’m going to make sure she remembers that next time we talk.
In the end I don’t think heaven would have her but I’m quite sure hell couldn’t handle her. So she’s stuck here on earth with us mere mortals; corrupting the good, and saving the damned. Bouncing her way from moment to moment, brightening the world around her.
I wish she was laying here next to me so I could hear that giggle of hers…
Somewhere along my path I lost something inside of myself. The ability to be playful and filled with joy, and she helped me start to get it back. I don’t know how to thank someone for something like that, so here I am writing this.