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at icarus’ touch, apollo sees bright white, 
sees the sun in icarus’ eyes in the moments before he touches it, 
the moment before everything goes down in flames. 

he says his name, hoarse and ragged, too soft and not at all enough
(icarus never paid attention). 

“let it be known,” apollo tells him, “i’ve already warned you”. 

icarus tunes him out and continues his path, a ghostly river run across apollo’s knuckles,
tracking a path the sun had made moments before. 

“you’re too greedy”, apollo tries again, 
somewhere between pleading in one breath and apologizing in another. 
this won’t end well. 

icarus cranes his neck to watch the sun swell in the sky, 
watch it flirt and taunt him all in one rotation. 

apollo, in one last-ditch,
last attempt, last pleading breath, 
opens his mouth in the effort of anchoring this ticking time bomb to the ground where he belongs, 

gets silenced by the first flutter of icarus’ makeshift wings. 

one last path of his fingers over the jut of his jaw, 
one last ghoulish river crafted through the hollow of his throat, 
the boy stands up and dusts himself off;
takes flight. 

apollo doesn’t watch him fly, doesn’t wait to see what he knows will happen. 

just traces the phantom touch left on his skin and closes his eyes. 

thinks to himself, this won’t end well.

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