he wants to be icarus, sometimes. to have the sun know of him, to touch the sky. his fingers stretched out, knowing that just a little bit and he’ll reach the clouds - to feel the burning of love within him. you told him, once, about wolves who love moons, and he smiled, talked about birds and deep breaths and blue waves - did you understand, back then? did you see the way his eyes became fire, his words burning holes in your body? you blamed the sun. you blamed the stars. you blame yourself. but consider this - maybe it isn’t the sun’s heat that burns him, maybe it is the boy himself.
——— ICARUS WAS NEVER MEANT TO BE A TRAGEDY.










