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"You've changed," he smiled,
Running his fingers through his curly, black hair.

"You haven't," my voice barely above a whisper,
My hazel eyes resting upon his dark ones.

"He's been talking about you."

So we walked in broken silence,
The swings creaking and the air filled
with the rumble of laughter and buses and busy streetlights.

His dark skin seemed to glow in the pale moonlight,
His cheeks raising in a forced subtle smile,
Like a puppeteer with marionette strings.

He could've been an angel.
He was just missing his wings.

He would've been enveloped in white, feathery concoctions,
To raise him into fluffy clouds and twinkling stars.

But instead he was here and down to Earth and with me.
Walking side by side on a surprisingly chaotic playground filled with
Screaming people and beating hearts at 7:00 P.M.

He could've been a saint.
With a soft voice and kind words,
He would've made a difference.

Instead he complains to me about schoolwork and Chemistry,
And the drama at his household.

He could've been alright.
True blue smiles and shining eyes,
Full of life.

Instead he was pained and devastated,
His head swimming with things even I could not understand.

But then I sat up and opened my own eyes.
Breath frantic and heart feverishly beating against my chest,
Like a caged bird trying to be set free.

"It's ok," he whispered on my bed,
Black, broken wings unfolding,
His face in a grimace.

"I'm still here," he rasped,
Voice like honey trickling into hibiscus flowers long gone,
His face matted with dirt and grime and tears.

His eyes were too dark and hair was too thin,
And missing its luscious curls.

His body broken,
And full lips twisted into a frown.

Angelo fell from the white clouds and blue sky.
Banished from the place he used to call home.

The only thing he hated losing more than his wings and happiness,
Was his pride.

So now he was actually here on Earth,
With me.

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