The words would circulate through the wintry air, and not even a little bit of time would pass before he would awaken again, in the morning, with his hands clutched to his chest and his throat stinging of pure joy.

Either way, his dreams were filled with bronzed faces and heavenly wings, hallucinating millions of eyes and Angels staggering on tenement rooftops, screaming unworldly oaths over the tops of cities, and drowning in their imagination.

Their gazes locked, and together they saw the squandered mirages slain beneath their feet, cemeteries of lonesome dreamers who gave up their wings under the name of love, salt-soaked kisses half-forgotten and twice-remembered.

Now, Kieran whispered those names in the darkness of the night as if they were prayers, when sleep was a sluggish yet heavy pull on his eyelids, when his thoughts would start to slowly evaporate in tandem, when he was lonesome for his Angels.