Michael, guardian of the South and bearer of the flaming sword, the instrument of both divine law and divine whim. Michael, clothed in red, your feet bathed in the fire of truth, justice, command. Often I have called you to my right hand and you have stood, in all of your patient passivity, to watch over the stumbling workings of this humble magician. I have felt your calm presence beside me often and basked in the glow of your strength.
Now what cruel twist is this?
What desire of the higher powers requires me to have found a human face to match with “Michael,” a face to rob me of all my powers? What wish of those higher authorities requires me to have found a man to match not only the sword-bearer’s name but his accompanying force of will and force of presence, a man whose mere visage robs me of my authority over my own heart? Oh devious Fates, to turn the capable guardian of my works into the helpless destroyer of my heart, to have taken from his glorious, heavenly form the wings which held him aloft and felled him to walk among the mortal. He has been ripped from his steady place by my hand and placed with fatal nonchalance into the ever-changing world of human endeavours before my eyes.
Often I have felt the reassuring warmth of a hint of a hand upon my shoulder, or the tickle of what might have been a feather against my cheek. More often still I have felt his phantomed fingers in the night, a wisp lightly drawing the line of my jaw, nape of neck, or the half-imagined thrill of angelic symbols being traced onto the insides of my thighs. I have found joy in his comfort. I have called out to him in need and he has heard my call. I have wished for him in the silence of night and closed my eyes to be greeted by the pressure of his hands against mine, his lips against mine, his loins, and had that most sweet liquid which is not blood drawn by the pierce of that sword which deals pleasure and not pain, fulfillments of my most fervent wishes. I have felt his fiery passion in my deepest places and his warm compassion in the deepest recesses of my soul, but never before have my eyes opened to see him, the incarnation of grace and divine strength, standing casually amidst all the folly and weakness of this mundane world.
Oh wicked gods, to take him from the hallowed halls of my mind, where no man may intrude, and lower him to this reality where I live on the good humor of a man. Michael, oh Michael, when once I could close my eyes and find the comfort of your arms, the pleasures of your flesh, this cruel twist has given you arms with which to hold me and flesh with which to please, and I cannot go to you for fear of worldly matters. When you have always been my reprieve of this life, my reason for survival, now your presence here among the earthly threatens my very means of support. Michael, my Michael, how I have longed to hear your voice, to sit with you and enjoy the fruits of this earth, to feel your touch with every part of me, and now the gods have birthed you into substance and set you before my eyes it is a strain on my very essence not to run to you, every fibre of my being screams out for you so. Yet those very fruits I long so much to share with you are mine by a mere thread, a thread which could be cut by my benefactor’s mere suspicion of a drop of the torrents of passion I harbor for you.
Michael, oh my Michael, what cruel destiny do the stars hold for us?
Oh how I yearn to lie next to your material form and just listen to the measured rhythm of your breath, even if it means the loss of all material possessions. I grew to give my heart to you outside of this world and now that you are here you even further outshine all this world can offer. You have always been my guide, and now that you have a voice - music to my ears! - tell me that I should run to you, call me to your hand, say that you wish for me in the silence of the night and we shall fill the night with the sounds of lovers not even the gods or the distance between substance and the ethereal could keep apart. Michael, call me and I shall be the companion to you in this world that your heavenly self has always been for me, no matter what destitution is the price the gods demand. Call to me, Michael, oh my Michael, and we shall fit together our two souls into the single union we were crafted to become.