Disclaimer: I don't own Ouran. A tragedy I know, but doesn't change the fact.
Wings
Sometimes master says that he can fly.
And sometimes I really do believe him.
He asks me,
Antionette, do you think I could fly?
And I want to answer, yes, but I can't, as much as I want to, I can't.
Because I want to fly back to France, back to mother.
And for his sake, I wished he could.
Then he would look at me with his sad eyes, those sad purple eyes, and turn away to begin playing his piano again.
Make me fly.
He whispers.
And I sit and watch him play that melody, that sweet, endearing melody.
The curtains filter in the soft, dazzling sunlight and flecks of dust in the room I can see floating around, like lost snowflakes without a direction.
And then I see them.
I can see master's wings.
They are beautiful, a creamy white, and luminescent in the light.
I can see master's wings.
They are big, but only as tall as master himself, and long, like the gangly legs of a teenage boy.
I can see master's wings.
My master is like that boy – he has his long and gangly legs, but doesn't know what to do with them.
I can see master's wings.
But I don't think he can see them himself yet.
I can see master's wings.
And they prove what I have suspected all along.
I can see master's wings and,
Those wings belong to an angel