When the Angel Wept

He came to me, like an old friend.

He came to me, like a lover.

He came to me, looking for help.

Three nights.

Endless days.

Somewhere between madness and prayer,

he wept.

He spoke of envy, of guilt,

of the stain his name had become.

His voice was thick with ruin—

sweet and sour,

like wine turned to blood

halfway down his throat.

He spoke of the Father—

the first sketch,

the rough cut,

the mold we shattered when we fell.

But those plans changed.

He was drunk on memory,

reeling from grace.

The room reeked of burnt offerings

and something older—

the rot beneath sanctified skin.

He spoke briefly of Hell.

Not fire, he said.

Silence.

A kingdom of echoes.

A choir of teeth and regret.

He didn’t ask for forgiveness.

He didn’t offer it either.

He just sat there,

trembling—

I held him, and he held me.

In that place of sin and holy grace,

we wept.

Not as man and angel,

not as sinner and fallen,

but as two things

once loved,

now lost.

And in that silence,

we were

very,

very

human.

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Adrian Weston writes dark fiction and poetry that explores grief, ritual, and the spaces between the sacred and the haunted. Their work blends gothic, folkloric, and speculative elements, with a focus on voice, body, and memory.