the sickly sweet torment.

the fleeting glances.

his beaming grin, as he laughs with his dark winged companions.

if only he could see himself through my ethereal eyes. 

if only he could hear himself the way i do, his voice spiraling me into a waking dream. 

i can read him like a book:

the lines of permanent pain etched into his carved features,

a continuous struggle with the vile anesthetized knave, and on the other shoulder: a battlefield strewn with bloody and broken thoughts.

he makes daily deals with the devil to obscure his view of the firing range, to keep him out of reach of the poison coated bayonets.

little does he know every handshake leaves another scar in it's wake, an everlasting reminder of eternal agony he wades through by choice: not obligation.

yet even the grey mayhem surrounding him can't take away from his celestial beauty. 

the shine escaping through the cracks in his ruinous husk, the crinkle of his freckled skin as his electric smile reaches his glistening eyes.

a golden halo sits gracefully atop his head of iridescent dirtied blonde hair. 

he tilts his head up, closing his eyes to greet the sunlight that lazily coats his aureate features; creating an angelic appearance of all that he is.

his ash wings stretching out behind him bathing in the warmth of the sunbeams, soaking in the buzzing energy we exchange.

that is what i gather when our eyes connect.

that is how i perceive him, and what i wish he saw when he looked at his reflection.

the unyielding image that will never fade from my consciousness for as long as i breathe, and will forever elude capture on a canvas.