i know the house where the angels rest their wings and dream of honeycomb afternoons that stretch into stardust nights.

the house stands tall like a fortress, gray stucco like a skeleton. the gables are snow white, and it holds no secrets.

the angels rest their wings and protect their heads from the april rains. they take leave from God's work and fall asleep among the humans.

an angel visited me in a haze once. she kissed my forehead and sung me a song about fairytale endings and snow covered roads. she wrapped me up and loved me.

and the sun cradled me close to it's chest, burning me and killing me and making me feel so alive.

the angels come at night, and stretch out on the sand colored roof until dawn, trading stories of humanity's faults.

they watch the humans, as we fall and break and become messes and become more human. they laugh.

i know the house where the angels close their porcelain feathers and reflect on the stars their boss made.

the house is my home.