You look at Apollo from the top of the world, wondering
in your trapped state what it’s like to be so free. He smiles
at you, sees through your skin and your bones to the stars
beneath. You crave his fingers on your skin, in your
veins, pulling pulling pulling until he is part of you. He
flashes you a grin, toothy and menacing and ever so slightly too
bright, but you don’t care; you’d go blind for him.
You’re getting higher and higher, the wings protruding from
your back like a bird’s. Angel he says, and you throw your
head back and laugh. You crave his fingers on your neck, your
spine, your mouth. He licks his lips, red and juicy, and
you crave that too. You’re soaring, untouchable by all but him.
You’re so close you can smell him, showers of stars and
sunlit sands. You’re back home again, playing the prince
with your father. You can see his eyes now, and they look like liquid
gold. You want to touch him, feel him. You’re transparent, and
he knows it. You’re close enough now, and you feel yourself reaching
to graze the constellation of freckles dancing across his face. He’s
dazzling, rays of concentrated light seeping through your pores.
Your feathers are flying away, wax scalding your back as it drips through the tunic.
He takes your mouth in his for the first time, the last time, and it’s sensational.
You can taste his laughter, and it shakes you:
boyish youth and the bitter salt of sweat, or tears, or the sea.
You need to breathe, but kissing Apollo tastes better than oxygen ever could.
It lasts an age, a second, a fleeting moment out of reach,
and you’re falling falling fallen, into Poseidon’s waiting embrace.
You love him.