Dear Michael
Dear Michael
Dear Michael
Sometimes I wonder:
If an angel did exist, what would its demeanour be?
It couldn’t possibly be a girl
Although, then again it might, because
I call her my little angel
And look into your big blue eyes.
Or perhaps they are more like my
Grandparents, old and grey and wise
Their wings still spread around me, and
In a way they hold me tight
The same way you never could,
Or would, or do, or will ever again.
Or maybe they would just be men;
Wearing long dirty trenchcoats
With broken hands of their hard work
And big blue eyes like yours.
If there is a way, any way, anyway,
I could see one standing here, right
Underneath the mistletoe, coming home to see
My little angel, smiling of content surprise...
No – forget it, it doesn’t matter.
Because how could I tell you of his
Broken hands and big blue eyes and
Dirty face and brown-blonde curls and the
Stubble on his cheek that matches
Yours, exactly to that big bright smile?
I do not believe in angels, but–
Well, You always said you might.
And if you can hear me – oh, please, hear me – I
Will tell you what they’re like and maybe
It would help you rest in peace
And find the light.
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