'She said she was a falling angel,
And I believed her,
'I don't mean that in a besotted or and love struck way, but certainly I was both besotted and love-struck by her.
She first told me one summer evening, when the sun was little more than a cloud-lidded eye about to close over the water and the smell of wildflowers and salt was heavy on the breeze. The rhythm of the sea was like breath, a hiss of the inhalation as the water raked back over the pebble', then a pause, and the crash of the exhale. We'd just made love within the protection of the dunes, scant footsteps away from other beech-goers, yet safe and secluded as we always were. I was holding her in my arms, my face buried deep in her thick hair, smelling that scent that reminds me of everything and nothing, dawn and dusk, velvet and sand.
"I'm a falling angel," she says, softly.
'I don't reply. There's nothing to say.' (Introduction)
