The Myth of Icarus

[28 August 2019]

Morning, and I see your back dented in and moulded into the
shape of longing and autumn and my stubble. The seconds punctuate
your breath and my breath in an elastic pizzicato, a give and take
with a logic deeper than any rhythm I have heard before. The curtain
sways gently, a side-effect of the hot air rising from the radiator
we brought in to stave off the chill that came a bit too
early this year. I can hear the oil bubbling. We still haven’t pulled out our
winter blankets, because you’d prefer to sleep in socks and
sweaters if you could but I’d never let you. Your black-framed plastic
glasses perch upside-down on the alarm clock. The automatic
coffeemaker in the kitchen drips into the pot and overflows
peacefully onto the counter. I can hear the droplets
sizzling on the warmer, marking the time between
now and sometime too soon to see properly, and somewhere between
your shoulder and the wall, I see the minutes on the
green analogue clock slowly climb like Icarus
before he reached his zenith.

4 thoughts on “The Myth of Icarus

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