Dawn breaks, and I am in bed with Lucifer, his arms golden in the sunlight, wrapped around me like a bouquet of primrose and baby's breath. We breathe intangibly, and I burrow into his embrace as the sun salutes the Morning Star. Out the window, the bay is filled with ships, their red lights of secrecy watched over by fretful captain's wives. The salt air tinges the skyline, and Lucifer smiles, at peace in this dream, yet not dream.
We arc like swans, our backs splayed, and then he crawls atop me like a serpent, coiled muscle, and eases himself onto my belly. His smile is a moonbeam, making grace. He tells me making grace in these quiet moments is what makes us holy and separates man from beast, animal from angel, demon from myth.
