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.

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Daily Prompt: Famous (Also inspired by Madeline Miller’s ‘The Song of Achilles)