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You open your eyes and see him in front of you. Almost every night. He comes, all dirty and tired. He comes more and more frequently. He shakes off his boots - custom-made high boots - the cooling sand straight up into the sky. He brings the scent of the desert and life. And never brings whiskey again.
Instead, he brings a mischievous wind. That warm wind that kept you warm in the icy light of the five moons. That clogged sand in your eyes and ruffled your hair. You think that his hair has become darker than the most starless night. While you will never turn gray. Imagine if his wings also turned black. You would like to see them one more time. Then you think, whether you even deserve to dream about it, after what you did.
The endless desert took away all your hopes long ago. She bared her teeth ferociously when you stepped outside the small church on the outskirts of December. It bit your throat with a crunch as a heavy cross was placed in your hands. The scratches of its metal on your back and the powder burns on your fingers will never let you forget it. The sky was so blue back then.
Here he always calls you by name. Screams sometimes. On the hardest nights. Desperately. To hoarseness in the throat and tears in the eyes. He tries to run up, but always falls to his knees, ankle-deep in unsteady sandy gold. It pricks and wounds his crippled legs. But he always laughs when he dusts himself off. In places where his tears fell, geraniums grow. Bright red. Blooms with his blood. You understand that this image will never leave your mind. Your memory is now infinite. Your grief reaches the clouds. Just ran out of cigarettes a long time ago.
He is waiting for you to call back. Not a nickname, one of the many that you came up with for him. Name. His real name. Which was feared and which was never spoken out loud. Looking forward to being invited. Waiting for you to make the sand part, the geranium reverently hide the leaves. You've read about something like this when small crosses were sewn to your clothes. And always thought it was bullshit. When you saw your first angel, you wanted to burn the bible, whatever it was.
The sky reflects in his eyes. They are your brave new world, he is your everything. Today he is silent and you think you did something wrong. As always. Like you're capable of something good. You would shoot yourself out of guilt for him, but you don't want to upset him once again. You think that if he killed you, it wouldn't hurt that much. Only you never step on the same rake twice.
He stands and a light warm wind ruffles his shirt. He hasn't styled his hair today and his black hair is casually falling over his face. Unconsciously, you reach out your hand to correct them. You've already used your chance for a last wish, so you can only watch limply as he takes the first step. The sand hugs his bare feet softly and you lower your head. From here to the horizon, there is hardly room for more flowers.
There are hundreds of kilometers between you, which he overcomes in a few steps. Easily bypasses low plants. Pieces of his torn soul, forever left here. For you. So that at least you don't get lonely. You know you're going to cry when he leaves.
You look down at your feet. Right where the colorless salty drop goes. You watch as the first sprouts appear and look up. Too close. So much so that you suffocate. He's still just a couple of miserable centimeters shorter than you.
The suns above you are so bright. You think you've never felt so right. If he allows you to keep looking into his eyes, the sky will lose any color.
- Let's go?
You have found your god. In a storm or in a lifeless desert - you will follow him. Call him by name. Ghosts will not be overtaken by madness. You will allow yourself to dream when you cross the edge of your fears. He takes your hand and you don't want to know anything else.
You smile and let him lead you.
And somewhere out of this world, he never opens his eyes again.