vii. 'i love you' was never enough. not for him, i suppose. not when eros was tired and bored with his mundane eternity and needed to spice it up! what better story than a love story? what better story than a tragedy. what excitement is a tragic romance? oh eros, damn you and your cold heart.
vi. kisses under a november sky, laced with sugar pumpkin and infused with milky cream. sweet kisses, beautiful kisses—broken by an urgent whisper— 'there's people coming'. oh what a fool i was. should've read between the lines, should've ran away when i still had the chance to.
v. 'be mine. be mine?' 'yes.'
flying high through the skies with him. skimming the horizon and hanging stars in the sky. oh how pretty life looks when under the spell of eros. how thankful i was, that cool september day, for the gods and goddesses to grant us a beautiful love— but trusting them was the biggest mistake i would make.
iv. delirious ramblings in bed. with him, at 2 am. i trace the contour of his cheeks, his lips, all the way down to his jutting collarbone. lightly. so lightly. 'come here,' he breathes. i almost don't catch it. he kisses me. he kisses me and i feel like i am a god. this burning in my blood is its transformation from iron to ichor. this restless ache in my belly, this feverish desire to hear my name gasped out from between his teeth the sign of the fates' blessing upon us. he kisses me and he touches me and he loves me and magic drips from both our bodies like sweat. there is a pulsing amalgamation of tender tension and sweet promises between us. and we build, build, build it until— ! it snaps and explodes into a brilliance of white and passion. 'i love you' falls from my mouth like icarus fell from the arms of apollo. so tragically. so beautifully.
iii. 'boys and boys don't kiss and hold hands like they're in love' / 'yes mother' / but, i swear, if you were me / and you met someone as beautiful as him / maybe then you would understand / some rules were made to be broken / for good things / like how we sometimes choose to eat dessert before dinner / or maybe how you loved dad / knowing he would eventually leave you / when it really mattered / and i'm sorry, truly, for what happened to you / i hurt for you / but i am not you / he is not dad / i am still young / rules can be changed / hope is still alive within me
ii. 'hi' says the pretty boy, and i choke. my eyes water and i cough and i cough and i keep on fucking coughing. please don't go, i pray. he doesn't. he stays and pats my back and i think if i were to die now i would die happy because who would have expected him—as beautiful as a greek god him—to ever stop and talk and care for me? but here he is. he's here, smiling kindly down upon me, and i'm here eyes stinging—from the coughing or him i don't know—and heart aching.
i. i saw the prettiest boy today, with soft caramel curls and lips the color of a ripe pomegranate. he must be hades. i can see it in the plum hollows developing under his eyes and the way he moves. oh, what i would give to be his persephone, to eat the pomegranates grown in hell and to be made his for eternity.
( a tragedy in reverse ! )
_
"the only mistake that [i] didn't make was run"
conan gray, astronomy