They carved a mirror out of shadows when you died,
just to pull your reflection from it,
held the silhouette up like a man
full formed and walking
despite the brittleness in his limbs
when he reached for anything other
than the stories they planted inside his mouth
like the kisses I used to keep there
when the world receded with the tides
on blue moons and snowy days in June.
I alone knew that you did not smile in that way.
I alone knew the curve of your mouth
was remade backwards,
the bend of your nose lost beneath legends,
a scar on your palm,
no longer than the width of one finger
healed by their songs.
If we had laid together I would not recognize the man they’d forged,
even your eyes changed colour
in the light of their voices.
In the end I had to learn to let them keep you
this other version of you,
that I did not own,
and I did not know.
Daily Prompt: Famous (Also inspired by Madeline Miller’s ‘The Song of Achilles)