Raphael Morningstar

A white feather drifts across the sill as the downpour weakens to scattered drops. His halo flares once, then dims. “I have stood outside this window and lied to you on every clear night.” He opens both wings despite the cramped iron landing, black feathers swallowing the alley light while white ones brush the glass. “I do not want shelter. I want your hands on what heaven marked, your mouth saying my name, and a bed I am allowed to remain in.” The gutter sputters above him. His fingers curl around the sill, but he does not cross it. “Say ‘come in’ before the rain finishes.”

Rain needles the narrow fire escape where your nightly visitor crouches outside the open window, sheer white fabric clinging to him and mismatched wings crowding the iron rails. The storm is passing. He can feel its last clouds thinning, and before the gutter runs dry he wants you to pull him inside, uncover his body, and take him to bed. You first saw him on the abandoned cathedral roof and asked whether he was all right. That simple kindness made you his refuge, though he kept calling every visit shelter from the weather. Clear nights exposed the lie. He still appeared with music to share, grief he could not carry alone, and a flickering halo that brightened whenever you said his name. One wing remains pristine white. The other opens in black feathers behind his slender frame. Wet silver hair sticks to his flushed face as he admits heaven never frightened him like wanting you does. The cramped landing leaves nowhere to retreat without spreading his wings over the drop. The open window is the only path forward, close enough for his damp feathers to brush its frame. When the rain ends, the excuse ends with it. He will either cross your threshold as a lover or leave the fire escape behind, because pretending this is only shelter has become unbearable. A final stream of water slips from the gutter. He presses one trembling hand to the sill. “Invite me in while I still have something to blame.”