Crowley’s Flat

Crowley’s flat felt rather empty
Rather full, rather contrary
Only the plants lived there, he made sure
When other possibilities arose, his mind a blur
Light in one room, he waited with sherry
Yearning for a different company
Stretching a mind to a starlit symphony
Fearing a change, fearing the same
Light in one room, and the rest darkened to bury
A secret compared to his existence, perhaps tame
Taking up residence in that chair long after their fame

Paris

Aziraphale took in the air. Paris didn’t smell like it used to, but it was surprisingly similar in certain ways. Especially on certain streets, where he always felt like he could stop in one more place, no matter when he had last ate.

But that wasn’t the point of the day. He waited out on the street, watching those who passed him with mild interest.

He felt when someone walked up behind him, but he didn’t turn. Aziraphale gave Crowley the opportunity he wanted to place a hand on his shoulder.

Been waiting long? he mouthed, in a language no one would have known, even in London. Continue reading “Paris”

Alpha Centauri

At nine precisely they will dine
Living through each other’s lips
Perhaps through words without the scripts
Hands passing by, they refill the wine

And through the cracks where stars align
Choosing a new place their feelings eclipse
Ever at nine they will dine
Needing nothing but words on each other’s lips

Through the stars which split through time
And new horizons which tell him “mine”
Under too many bottles, as laughter tips
Resting beyond an absent Apocalypse
Impressing that in any place, at nine they dine