His lips are chiselled and he is ruggedly handsome. Larger than life, cooler and more beautiful than any other person I know. None of my friends know, we keep our secret well. I find it hard, but he is the silent type after all. No one would ever understand my love for him. I don’t care that he never says he loves me, I don’t care if he never calls. His eyes say it all. He is always there when I need him.

We meet in the grave yard, it’s perfect, isolated and empty. No one comes here in the evenings and I think it suits him, all that stonework, off setting his pale smoothness. He is standing there when I come in, and as soon as I see him it’s like coming home, like the sun no matter how cold it is. I run to him, through my arms round his neck and kiss him.

I spend my evenings sitting at his feet, talking to him, I tell him everything. He is perfect in everyway, his jaw, his lips, his wavy perfect set hair, his strong chest. No one would understand my love for him.

I kiss him and his lips are full and cold. He’s beautiful, larger than life. Stands on his dais with his spear and his carved toga. Wings held stiff in the highest winds. Never moving hair. But his eyes are always open to watch for me, always ready to watch over me as I tell him my hopes and my fears. My Michael, larger than life, this man made of brilliant marble.

I sit at the feet of a statue and kiss his exposed shin as a lover would. He is perfect, protective. No one will ever understand. I kiss him over and over. His lips red with my blood, broken by the force of his kiss. I love him. My angel with wings of stone. Michael.