Tiny white wings are unfolding, and he watches as they do. It's rapid, but he catches the movement, the flexing of tiny bones and the pride of millions of years of evolution coming to form a feature so delicate yet so strong. It's wondrous, it's beautiful, it's awesome and endearing but his eyes pass that nature, meeting softly with another. There is a face veiled and a frame decorated in the colour of the sky and it's approaching him slowly, smiling and quivering with each, awkward step. It's not so much a dainty stride as it is comical waddle and he chuckles as he stands there, waiting in white, shifting his weight from foot-to-foot with the softness of the wind.
The figure is at his side, after time has finished sitting still. It feels strange, but he's content as his hand holds yours, as the cold stone upon your finger feels his.
You are the sky, vast and open; he is the idealist's cloud, soft and calm; and between the two of you are the tiny wings of a bird, undeveloped and growing; soon to meet the world, soon to meet the sky and the cloud that completes it — they will always keep watch. His chuckle resounds as those wings begin to stretch, once, twice, resonant as a soft ripple against your stomach.