The Rhythm of Immortality

The Sun Eats Icarus Raw On Sundays

i.

Breathe in the sulfur, bare your neck to the red skies; exhale.

(Rinse.)

Thread the hymns within your ribcage to your wrists. They will sigh, and they will moan and cry penitence, but do not worry.

(Lather.)

Sink to your knees.

(Repeat.)

ii.

Patience is a virtue they say and you know this well. You bled it onto your father's tombstone, your shuddering thighs and heaving chest.

But not your back; no. That's for open-

mouthed third degree burns and sacrificial conquest. Remember your promises.

Know that retribution is not— no, never kind.

iii.

"Have you ever felt what it's like to die?"

Apollo asks while running his sun-kissed fingertips along your collarbones, a lilt to his voice you've never heard before.

"Yes,"

you gasp.

"It's no different from loving you,"

you choke.

iv.

His hands find yours. Gold, imperial, beautiful— but searing.

Your grasp becomes tighter.

He whispers his prayers into the altar of your shoulder, a cost far too great in his spit.

Close your eyes knowing he'll always devour you with the love of a thousand tender suns.

Make peace with this fact.

v.

To repent is to fall again and again.

To repent is to fall again and again.

To repent is to fall again and again.

--r.k.

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