The Leftover Angel


I am the leftover angel secluded in heartbreak. I pass through an equilibrium of time, deafened by the noisy dimension of my worth and whatever is left now, crumbling into the blackness of disbelief. I see my sadness curled into a wisp of smoke, held up to the gaiety of a twisted messy spiral. I spy the leftover sweetness of myself only slightly. My kiss is no longer sugared, my hugs no more warm. As such as was once upon a time, when I slumped back into cold inclinations to avoid nettling favour with the beloved. And that is how I lost you.

I am the clumsy Jack in the Box. No perky bounces for me I’m afraid… I lie, condemned and limp like a weathered glove that saw too many handshakes. I am the glint of a needle hovering in its resting place in the sand, the timepiece on your hand that went astray. I am the puppet on the string turning the clock around and embracing it into a tangle of torn bandages. I am the marionette gone on strike for her wilful dance. Times stops and then it does not.

Where is your voice now that I would hear you call to me from the morning sun. Where is your song now that I would hear your hums on the bed of my dreams. I will run to eternity searching for the lost and wailing your name… lest you hear me and lest you cry a plea that says no more. Be warned that you must answer.

But scream into the starlight I must that my heart bleeds not with loneliness but begs the sound of your voice to stay the willing friend.

And the moon will smile its playtime wiles at me and throw me down a box of toys from high up the skies but I cannot stop to stay. For I must run. I must lift my skirts and run for such then is the cajoling fantasy of my longing. Call my name and I will come to you. I sit here in the meantime, a shadow in the dark and my halo fallen to the ground and upon which the spiders have built their homes. I promise acclamations to these tender creatures but crawling in a grumpy frenzy, they say nothing. I promise hymns to the angels that stroll about cradling my heartbreak…all of old dames and dusty gowns and what have you… as if if milk-bottled rightly, my loss would spring from infant to adult in something of a splendid jiffy.

Only I cannot bear the romanticism of a wound bleed, I cannot. Call my name and I shall come to you on a winged flight, holding clasped palms to my chest. Then I shall wear the sun upon my face and the night of pain from a forgotten rod still steadfast on my frail sore back. – suzan abrams –