Icarus and Apollo
Icarus flew too close to the sun; he scorched his wings for his ambition. What pride he must have felt as he surpassed the moon, then the stars. Floating past and through the orbital paths of Venus, then Mercury. What pain he must have felt as he was struck down—what fear.
Apollo never meant to hurt Icarus; he only meant to caress his cheek. So in love with this mortal, he only wanted to draw him closer. He spent his nights dreaming of wrapping him up in his warmth. He didn’t know that this love could hurt. What pain he must have felt to watch Icarus fall—drifting further and further away. What sorrow must it invoke in one’s being to know that you may never feel the touch of your lover—that your touch would only cause them pain.
How many iterations of these lovers wander the face of this earth today? Icarian and Apollonian souls circling each others’ orbits, but never letting their planets collide from fear of hurting or being hurt. What I wouldn’t give to rewrite this tragedy’s ending. Icarus flies too close to the sun; his skin is bronzed from its rays. Apollo embraces him and never lets him go.