Angelcore
Wings She Doesn't Use, Just Tired of Gravity
Wings folded, light dimmed, still here.
You’ll find me where the world forgets to look—on fire escapes, in alleyways, leaning into the hush between city noises. My wings are real, but they stay folded. I’ve grown used to the weight of this sky, the ache of expectation. I don’t fly. I listen. I linger. I exist in the quiet tension between ascent and surrender.
What I'm Into: feather drift, city puddles at dusk, the hum of streetlights, slow ivy, silent skies
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