Who taught Icarus to run from home?
To run to golden arms of unsettling perfection?
To hold tight to something so beyond reach it would be his undoing?
Did he know?
That each second spent would slowly steal the color from his hair?
That each kiss would leave a darkened sun-mark on his sand-pale skin?
Who told Icarus that love was only once given by a god?
That it had saved from death the many heroes of old?
Did they forget to tell him the stories where the god’s lost their lovers and killed their children? Where they let slip the moments mortals held so dear?
Who made Icarus believe that safety wasn’t home, but Apollo’s smile and the hint of Ichor that boiled in his blood at every meeting?
That it was every brush of mortal hand with etheriality, every moment spent laughing in the sun?
Did no one catch him, and remind him that freedom was easily lost, and love hard-won?
Did they not tell him that every spark eventually caught flame?
They told him chase your dreams but forgot he dreamed of a burning sea