Prometheus holds a drop of sun

like a cradled child,

breathing in the remnants of the light

is not an easy task,

he says, yearning and aching,

sighing, burning and weeping.

He is delivering it to the lucky mortals

who get their wishes mixed up with their glory.

I am not one of them, for luck has never felt so foolish with me as with him.

As with him, you cannot say

which side of the sun he loves more.

Icarus all over again,

and with wings of graphene it is no wonder.

Nothing is luck,

he flies from the fall he chose to take,

he smiles and breathes in the smoke

he’ll know will kill him.

My Prometheus carries no sun to me,

my body in his arms arches back like a dancer;

take me, take me, if I perish, I perish.

I am foolish to die for something immortal,

but it feels good to climb to a place I cannot reach.

All for something sunken deep

in the last lines of a gleaming smile,

he will go away.

He is not mine to take, but I am always his.

I cannot bear to read the lines of something fake,

but inspiration is more than reading,

it is a form of desire I discovered which made me write down who I am in a well-off way.

As if I am something mysterious,

as if I am something Prometheus would loose the hinges of the sun for and pry it from the hooks.

As if I am something Prometheus would die for.

I would.

And I wonder why a mortal would make a better use of time in an effort to touch a delicate sun.

And I wonder why I am yearning to look down upon him from the skies, because I am up further than him and my fall will be greater than Icarus.

We’ve only ever looked each other in the eyes.