It rained all night, and I realized reluctantly that I had never seen your hair wet before. The intimate spiders shivered in their webs, uniting in the driest corner of porch while introverts horded their flies until they fell, heavy and water-logged, out of sight. Water unraveled down your face in candlelight, guided my eyes to the way your collarbones reared up against the plateau of your chest. It was raining, and I might have hallucinated facets of myself refracted in the bright prisms of your eyes. I got so excited at the sight of your slick new face, curls tight against the coy planes of each temple, that I could have been mistaken.

When white, lace veined wings began to fight their way through the skin of your back, I knew it was not the weather. I took a bite while you buzzed in alarm, speaking silken reassurances and explaining how the time was finally right. You fluttered half-heartedly, then quietly leaned into my arms.