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Oh, angel. My essence burns, my body is hanging on by his fingertips. Days never were so obscure and uneven: some of them fly by, some of them are too difficult to get over.
I'm overcome with memories. I think it's my duty to take care of the Soho bookshop, but even though Muriel is trying to support me, I can't bear to think about the place, let alone go there. It's soaked with you. No centuries have ever separated us so much.
Dear angel. I'm losing track of time. In my mind, I'm still there, in the bookstore, in front of you. Kissing you, trying to convey to you all the things you didn't understand from my words. It was a moment of impulsive attempt, a moment of goodbye and endless sorrow. When you pressed against me during the kiss, something was born in me. Anticipation, hope that you have changed your mind. A faint attempt to insinuate to myself that you thought I was worthy enough.
Oh, angel. Do you really think I want to be what I was in the past? In a place that you think is eternally just and right? The place where I was banished from just for asking questions? The place where I was forbidden to think? Admit it, do you want my wings to turn white as a flash because you think I'm worthy of Heaven or because I'm not good enough right now? Do you think I'll be a better person if I wear my clothes are the color of new bedding? Do you think I'll stop asking questions?
Memories haunt me everywhere, I can't relax. I try to think that you're not so good to stop the suffering, but I realize that my attempts are doomed. I've known you for over six thousand years. I've been convinced of your exceptionalism too many times.
I make up stories where everything is fine, only to later, feel even worse, realizing that my dreams are unreal.
Oh, angel. I always thought I appreciated what I had. As it turns out, I underestimated a lot of things. My heart is soaked with you, and now it's trying to survive without you, my oxygen. I always thought I could only count on myself, but it's better with you, you know. With you, I don't feel like I'm rotting and tearing apart.
I can't look at my creations as I look at you. In a way, I felt like you were my creation and I was yours. We are creations not only of each other, but of the world around us. We are creations of people, which seems to me more honest than Heaven or Hell. At least people don't shout about their contrived rightness.
Dear angel. I don't say your name because I whisper it unconsciously. When an impossibly painful sense of hopelessness overwhelms me, I repeat «Aziraphale» as if in delirium, hoping that you will hear me and come to my aid.
I've never been so weak. And I was grateful for that weakness when you were there for me. But now I can't bear it, and I want to tear myself to shreds, scream my last cry of pain, and disappear. But I'm meant to live forever, aren't I?
You ruin everything I do. Or rather, thinking about you ruins everything. I'd do anything if I didn't have your name in my head and on the tip of my tongue. But I say thank you for everything between us. The long six thousand years I've spent with you have flown by like miserable hours.
I'm jealous because...
I want what you have.
I want you.