Dancing with angels, that’s how it feels when she takes your hand and whispers how beautiful you make her feel, how happy you make her. She breathes on your neck while her hands slide down your shoulders, making the hair raise on edge and tingle cold under her warm hands, shuddering slightly with excitement at her delicate touch.
Dancing with angels is when she leads you out the front door and into the warm sun outside the shadows. She looks into your hazel with her sun spot eyes and smiles, crinkling the slight scar under her eye and takes your hand in hers. She pulls you close and gives you a fleeting kiss before she pulls away, embarrassed of the public display she let herself show.
Dancing with angels is when she hurries you into her room, undressing as she kicks the door shut, hands scrambling to expose flesh and embrace bodily chemicals. Dancing with angels is when she stands naked before you, faults and scars exposed with her shame displayed, brave. Dancing with angels is swallowing tears and pride to expose your own, to show the faint scars in the dim light, feeling her sorrow and want scan your skin, pierce your soul. Dancing with angels is a dream and that’s what we all want, to dance with angels.