ICARUS

I am no poet—  

but they write of Lovers,  

the ones who endured,  

the ones who vanished,  

leaving behind only tragedies,  

inked and fading in memory.  

I’ve dodged their stories, hidden between pages, 

scribbled ink whispering what could have been.  

But the paper is patient, staying crisp, a hand unclenched,  

empty with hesitation.  

Before the pages could rot and yellow with age,  

there was a blue eyed smile—  

and an open seat.  

 From guarded glances to careful friendship,  

a balance I dared not break  

with my splotchy true colors.  
 

The gritty reds of fists on sandbags,  

the soft yellows of my dedication,  

the blues I spilled for my fictional worlds—  

I hoarded them like treasure,  

a dragon shielding the wealth of me.  

 But as my wings grew careless in her presence,  

she saw the hoard of colors  

that made me.  

And then— without pause—  

her hands were covered in hues of mine,  

and there was the promise of my favorite movies in her car,  

adventures wrapped in sweet treats  

beneath darkened streets.  

Early morning runs chasing sunrises,  

road trips that followed rainbows,  

skimming over glassy lakes and jagged mountains. 

Dancing in the rain and beneath flashing lights, 

letting ourselves hide in the night.

And so, I found myself ever drawn to her,  

chasing her footsteps as she quietly followed mine.

Her laughter echoing through the night, 

leaving me desperate to taste the sound.

The twinkle in those bright blue eyes,  

and her curls spun to gold in the light of day. 

I reached out, bracing for the flame that never came,  

as if touching the sun itself—

only to find warmth, 

not pain.  

A tentative pinky linked with mine,  

our arms stiff with the weight of a fragile, quiet fear.  

Should one of us let go, 

the touch would dissolve like morning mist, 

and I would lose my fleeting grasp on the Sun 

forever.  

But as time unwound beneath a sky  

that mirrored stars above and below,  

holds on pinkies became hands, 

and hands became stolen 

kisses  

shared in the sacred hush of night.  

I learned how it felt to be enfolded in her warmth,  

to bask in her radiant glow, to be held by the sun’s embrace.  
 

My fingers through the loops of her belt,  

twined through her golden curls,  

as dawn’s gentle light etched her features in the soft hues.  

When morning arrived, she became marble—  

a marvel carved with impossible precision, 

a masterpiece born of the Divine.  

And in her arms, I found myself cradled by Art itself.  

 Her name, 

descended from angels, 

carried the weight of Heaven,  

and in her grasp, I knew no fear of Hell.  

No devil would dare pull me from her,  

nor drag me down for allowing her rays to cast rainbows across my heart.  

No god would deny me remain in her Heaven, nor will I wish to leave. 

I am mesmerized by her brilliance,  

blinded by the soft shimmer of her halo, and speechless with awe.  

No false god could have fashioned something so flawless,  

and so, it is to her I offer my praise—  

her, whom I worship in the silence of night.  

With her heartbeat as my lullaby,  

I pray to honor the lovers I strive to write,  

to capture a fraction of this rapture.  

Let her immortal soul and radiant presence be etched in stone for eternity,  

and until then, 

let me bask in her warmth,  

even if it means falling like Icarus,  

gloriously burned by the light of the sun.