It was not my fault that the wind pushed you.
Hard and steady little boy hands.
I wish I had fashioned you seagull wings.
See this mist curling around your
shoulders. Does the wax drip for you too.
Take the vertebrae of a fish, folding
apart. Hands in offering. Crete threads
through my spine stitch by stitch, to balloon
its lungs. Is your blood the same shade sap.
That adhered to makeshift bladed driftwood.
I see gears whirling in your mind. Iron
rods betwixt your hands. Unpeel shards of
night. I dream of circles and reincarnation.
Truthfully, my fingers are suited to execute,
while searching for you is a Sisyphean twist.
I think you are haunting me still. Tell me,
did you lull Icarus to you and cover his ears,
rip off everything you wish you had, pulling
closer that answer like this yearning.
I remember only then. You are a child.
I am so sorry that Acropolis is steep and rocky.
Do not blame me that you lost your balance.