[open] I've lost the foreground watching the horizon; any

[sleaze]

I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies
tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife

Hark!
The angel may not be singing, but she is there and she is real.
(He hopes.)

He just stares, for a moment. No doubt unnerving, as he surveys her, his stare too intense. It is not the lecherous stare that men often have, but rather, he studies her for some clue to her corporality, some assurance that she is not a dream. His mind, so ever weary, finds no real evidence to either side. She is striking, the paleness of her and the flurry of wings. And shockingly small, enough that he wants to shrink himself, feeling like some looming purple shadow, unfit to be beheld by royalty.

But it has been so long. He is so lonely. And so, rather than remove himself from her presence – rather than protect her from him, from whatever he is – he speaks.
“Hello,” he says, and he moves his head in a nod. She stays solid, unchanging, and so he finally shifts his gaze from her.

He is tempted to move closer, but he resists the urge, slowly remembering his manners. She asks a question – a far one, he supposes – and he considers it.
“I suppose it depends what you find nice,” he says, a little wryly, “but I hope so.”
I hope you are real, he means, I hope I haven’t dreamt you up myself.

Sleaze

@Lillia