The fire flickers, and the light on your wings wavers.
I have a bad habit of staring at them until you catch me.
You don’t actually scold me when you do.
You just look
a little amused
a little reminiscent
a little confused.
You’re standing at the window, gazing up at the stars.
Let’s go out and watch them, you say.
Why, I ask.
Because it’s clear out tonight, you reply.
You catch sight of my dubious expression.
You creep closer.
Please, you beg, staring up at me through your eyelashes.
I hate you, I say.
We’ll get all wet, I say.
We’ll fall asleep and be outside all night.
But I’ve already given in, and by the enormous grin on your face
you know it.
After all, I’d follow you over the edge of the world.
I know I have an obsession with wings. It’s a problem.