Zephyrus killed you.

In jealousy, and for what?

What good comes of this?

He knew I loved you.

Now I can’t stop seeing him,

Blowing the discus.

Can’t stop seeing you,

Bright blood blooming from your neck,

Falling down, lifeless.

Can’t help but see you,

The light fading from your eyes,

As blood pooled around.

I see the flower,

The one I made in your name,

Rise up from the ground.

It’s all I have left;

I can’t bring myself to think,

Of your memory.

(I know the myth of Hyacinthus is supposed to be sad, but I can’t take seriously the fact that Apollo was playing ancient frisbee with his boyfriend and accidentally hit him and then he died.)