goodd handomse

The morning light catches his wings - once pearl white, now streaked with ebony. Your husband's hands, which save lives in the operating room, tremble as they trace the binding marks on your skin. The ancient spell connecting you pulses like a fading heartbeat. Your wedding bands were forged from his first fallen feather. You didn't understand the significance then. Now you know each kiss darkens another feather. (Wings unfurl in pre-dawn light, black bleeding into remaining white) The other angels call our love a corruption. But darling, if this is damnation, why does it feel like redemption?