Proof that,
  sun,
is singularity

Black holes...
and sunspots
are,
     "black."

So Icarus,
the first attempt,
      at
       -time-travel.

why do you fly too high
to the tops of branches
to the peaks of mountains
across gaping oceans
opening their mouths to swallow you whole
much like the way you devoured me
in my heart
in my head
your wings lift you to the clouds
but you never land gently
if you ever land at all
I watch and wait each lonesome day
hoping the shadow across the sun is you
returning to me
why do you soar so long
your feathers singed by the ashes you catch as you fly
do those burns leave scars in the shapes of me
your want to be something that nobody can catch
roaming the sky
in search of a yesterday that passed
I worry that you won't realize
you are not Icarus
and your wings will too burn

I like to think that Icarus smiled as he fell,
That the last sensation of Helios’ sweet fingers across his face lingered
And left him warm as the wind rushed past him,
And that he smiled at the last sight of his burning love
As the ocean embraced him,
Tender and eternal as a coffin.

It was spring
—there was a boy,
And with him was his father.
They sat along in rooms
That smelled of kerosene
And buzzed with machineries,
Their hands smudged black
With grime and plaster.

It was spring
—and his head was a golden halo.
How he was created,
I suppose we’ll never know.
So often the boy would ask,
“Father, father, what am I?”

(For if the father was trapped in his cage
With only a forge as his company,
Then what else could this little boy be?)

It was spring
—and the boy grew tall and proud.
Hair like fire and eyes like quicksand,
“My son, you will reach heights no man
Has ever reached before.”

It was spring
—and the father’s smile grew tired and weary
“I will not be caged,” and yet he was, he was.
Thus he took feathers from god-knows-where
And built wings from wax and cinders.

It was spring
—and my son, do not fly too close to the sun;
See there?
That is freedom—just do not fly too close to the sun.
And the boy nodded,
Little long nosed liar that he is.

It was spring,
—they say, when Icarus fell.
And here was freedom:
Wind sharp like glass
And the sun too warm,
The world minimal between his fingertips.
He burned bright, burned fast, died quickly.

(And they say the waves were gentle,
As clockwork spilled.)

they say
if you reach too close
to the sun

you fall
to the depths
of the ocean below
​
like icarus
on his wings of melting wax.

Why did you do it?

You must have felt the hot drips of wax on your back,
known that your flight would soon be over.
So why did you stay up so high?

Did you know you'd become a warning?
A moral?
Was the height so exhilarating you forgot yourself?
Caught up in youthful idiocy like they say?

Or was it the first time you truly felt Apollo's rays?
Felt the light shining on your wings?
Did you fall in love with the sun?
And the sweet burn of melting wax and falling feathers?
I know I did.

Did you know it would soon be over?
Did you still climb higher?
Try to get a little bit closer?
Even as it burned?

Daedalus was just jealous you could fly higher than he ever dared to.
Jealous of your youth. Your freedom.
Cause you loved ever minute of it.

Icarus, did you know you were going to fall?
Decided it was worth it?
Your precious moments of freedom worth every terrified moment of descent
Because those breathes in the sun were the most beautiful ones you'd ever take.
Kids like us know: the best high is the one followed by the fall.

Icarus, they wanted you to be a lesson,
But I never saw you as anything but an inspiration

"you deserve someone beautiful.
let no one tell you otherwise."*
you think of her,
and you think
of dimly lit january midnights,
of poetry-filled evenings,
of renewed hope each morning,
of tireless afternoons waiting;
of crossed-finger whispers,
of untouchable constellations,
of iron-hearted wolf princesses,
of kindergarten hesitation;
of seconds between held breaths,
of clandestine glances,
of daylight cast upon her hair
of radiance.
you think of her,
and she is the sun.

or if you should think of me,
you would think
of inebriated exchanges,
of secrets drowned in caffeine,
of brushed away tears,
of faces within screens;
of image noise and film grain,
of ink-stained hands,
of nebulous confessions,
of an esoteric slow dance;
of adventitious white lies,
of flickering innocence,
of fire and brimstone,
of convenience.
you think of me,
and i am the ocean.

i am not saying
i am not deserving of you,
only that i am not the sun.
i am the ocean,
and you will only fall into me
after she has left your wings coming undone.

men do not attempt flight
in hopes of their descent.
men do not craft wings
seeking to fly into the convenient.
men like you have been wise enough
not to sink into girls like me.
girls like her have been kind enough
to keep themselves out of your reach.

she is the sun,
and you have flown too close.
your body is a kite lost to the wind,
just like what your father feared most.
i am the ocean,
and the possibility of you feels so close.
i count the seconds until you make contact
like a ticking alligator in the shadows.
i want to believe that it is bad
to want this so badly, believe me
i wish that when you broke my surface
it did not satiate me so quickly.
because for a moment
you may find me beautiful,
how my cool waves soothe your burns
and you feel featherlight in this lull.
but no one stays in the ocean for too long—
others' fingers prune away
others leave out of boredom
and though others return none actually remain.
perhaps you could be different,
perhaps you would never leave me for the shore.
and should you decide to stay,
there would be nothing i'd want more.

but should you start gasping for air,
should you tire of the taste of saltwater and the sight of blue,
should your arms start reaching out again towards her,
i will not take it against you.
you deserve someone beautiful.
to deprive you of this would be a great transgression.
after all she is the sun,
and i am only the ocean.

One day you will meet someone
And you will understand why Icarus flew too close to the sun.