To the boy with amethyst eyes.
You have maddened me. I'm furious, because you have stripped me of my greatest aspect. I no longer call myself a poet, because of you. You see, poetry is beautiful. And you define beauty—thus poetry. I've never written anything as beautiful as you. I've written about the stars, about the sun and the moon, but none if it can compete.
I have been driven senseless by you. I once heard someone say, “Keep a body under the moonlight and every man can be a poet.” When I saw you at first, I thought that could apply to you too, dearest. But I was wrong. Because hours later when I tried to express your beauty with words, I had none. Words, you see, were my strength. A poet, I called myself. But you. You stripped me of my words.
It's all because of your eyes. (Amethyst eyes like none I've ever seen. O, oh Αδώνης! O, Απόλλων! How I could write odes about your eyes, those beautiful μάταια.)
Your eyes, my dearest, they remind me of Υάκινθος, the lover of my Lord Απόλλων. But I shudder making this comparison. No, I will not allow myself to do so. I will not allow myself, even for a second, to think of you having the same fate as him. You do not know me, and yet, you are too precious to me now. So, no.
If you'll let me, I'd like to be a part of your life. And I hope you do. Because if you don't, then, well, you wouldn't be reading this. I wouldn't want it to be a possibility that you'll be disgusted by my feelings. I think you to be a heavenly body, you see. I will not risk upsetting someone I'm sure angels took care crafting. No, I won't sin.
The thing is, you do not know me. Nor I, you. But that is okay, because if—no, when (maybe a month, or even a year later?)—I give you this letter, I'm sure I'll know you well.
I saw you earlier today for the first time, and your eyes did things to me that I have yet not been able to fathom. Then I knew, you are my sun, because from that moment onwards, my thoughts have been revolving around you, and only you. Your eyes, oh how I can't get over them. They shone brighter than any star I have ever seen. And your smile—directed at someone else, but still—was like the moon to my wolf. How my blood sang for you, dearest. A song of fire and ice.
No, I— Forgive me for comparing your eyes with stars (oh, they're not as beautiful as your eyes, nothing is). I'm ashamed that I even thought of that for a moment. Stars lie. It's a terrible thing, but that's what I've always heard. A star I wish upon tonight might already be dead. Stars lie, but I don't think your eyes can.
Lord! Why did I not think of this before? You are Μιδας' reincarnation, aren't you? It's just that you have a golden aura lingering around your fingertips. You turn everything you touch into gold, don't you? Your eyes showed me a glimpse of your slim gilt soul, I know all of you is golden. I wonder how it would feel if you touched me. Would you turn me to gold with a single touch of yours? (I think it will be worth it.) Would you touch me, at some point? (Oh, oh, how I need that!)
I want a lot of things, but at this moment, nothing more than to look into your eyes again. When you were born, the Μούσες kissed the ground beneath your feet, did you know that? No, of course you don't, because you have never seen your eyes (Your eyes told me so much). In a mirror, sure, but the reflection can't even be close to what they really are.
Anyway, allow me to write about what happened on this day, when I saw you for the first time, lest you—and, I shudder to think (because it is impossible), that maybe, I too—have forgotten about it by the time you're reading this. I want to tell you what I think I felt when you locked eyes with me for that brief moment.
Have you heard of Νάρκισσος? (Forgive me for assuming you do. Being greek, I've heard these stories from childhood and tend to presume others have too. If you haven't, then don't hesitate from skipping through this.) At that moment, I thought about the death of Νάρκισσος. He died drowning in a lake, because he tried to reach for the reflection he saw in the water. They say the reflection belonged to the most beautiful man to have ever lived. I think that day, the sun (you, you, you, you are the sun) shone so brightly, that instead of his own reflection, he saw you. I'm sure he thought, “Oh, Lord, how could anybody be more beautiful than me?” I'm certain he tried to reach for you, and fell—after all, who wouldn't fall for you?—because no one in this world is worth drowning for, more than you.
Your eyes, my dearest, told me you were everything. They told me that if I couldn't have you, I'd never know what sanctity is. Did you know that? I don't think you did, because if you did, you wouldn't let everyone taint your beauty by looking at you, would you? If I were you, I know I wouldn't. But since I do not know you, all I can do is assume.
Yes, assuming is something I've been doing ever since I laid my eyes on yours. But you. You've been consuming me, piece by piece. Every inch of my thought.
Your honey skin. I wish to know how it would feel under my fingertips. (Would it taste sweet?) I wonder how you smell (is that normal?), like earth wet after rain or sunshine after a storm, like anemones or daffodils or hyacinths?
I want to trail my fingers on your skin, trace my name on your back and oh lord, how I want to kis— No, I—I… I shall not say anything about it anymore, before I lose control. Forgive me.
You. I do not know you (I want to, though, so please let me). And yet, for a moment I chose to forget my name, because I did not know yours. I am named after my Lord Ερως, you see, the God of infatuation and lust. Even so, I do not think what I feel for you is either of those. No, that is not possible. For whatever it is worth, I think I'm in love with you.
Why is it that I got to read that letter of yours today? Why not ‘a month or even a year’ after you wrote it? Why is it that you said you'll give me this letter, and yet, you didn't. You asked your father to, yes, and he did give it to me after years of searching. But you didn't hand it to me. Why is it, that when I read that, I cried not tears of joy, but of sadness? Why is it, that I get to hear you say you love me after you're gone?
I—Erasmus, I am furious. It is you who has maddened me. I am disappointed to know that you thought I could ever forget about that day. I was seventeen. I was laughing at something my sister had said, when from the corner of my eye, I saw a boy looking at me. It was you, looking at me with big, round eyes.
Those black eyes, oh, oh lord, oh lord. Black eyes like I had never seen before. (You think my eyes look pretty, but oh, oh you've never really seen yourself. Your eyes remind me of darkness, of a void, emptiness full of sadness, but in a good way. I cannot express what I really mean, I am not good with words. I just— It's your eyes, my love, they're the reason I'm undone. Does this make sense? There is nothing more beautiful that you.)
Then you looked away, your face turning the darkest shade of scarlet.
My sister, Scarlett, nudged me then. I turned my attention to her back again. I could hear her, yes, but couldn't comprehend a single word she said, because I kept thinking about you. It was nothing, I told myself. But it was something, and I became certain of that after you approached me again, a month later.
I am no poet like you were—and no, don't negate this. You were, always had been one—so I can't possibly express myself properly. You used metaphors and imageries. All I have are words of a commoner. So please do not think that I think of you any less than you think of me, just because I can't possibly find words to describe that I consider you more. More than me. You called me everything, Erasmus. And I call you more than everything. Yes, I think that will be it.
You do not get to compare me with Hyacinthus, the lover of your Lord Apollo, Erasmus. No, you do not. Because it was Hyacinthus with the discus piercing through his head. Lord Apollo still lives. You did not. You gave up. So no, do not call me Hyacinthus when you're the one who died first.
I had not known a single story of the greeks when you wrote the letter. But two years with you, and I know it all by now. So now, I know. Narcissus? Yes, I have heard of him. On the second Saturday of the third month after you approached me, you told me I was born with Narcissus' face, but with a much gentler, kinder, gilt soul. Of course I remember. (Though when you said that, I thought you were speaking about yourself: only that could be appropriate.)
O, love. You spoke so highly of my eyes. You always loved them, didn't you? Of course you did. There wasn't a single day when you wouldn't look into my eyes and sigh that dreamy sigh of yours. (I remember it like it were my own heartbeat.)
At first, you were so shy. You stuttered every time you spoke, blushed whenever our hands brushed. And oh lord how I loved and hated it at the same time. No, my Erasmus, that is not because I didn't love you—how could I not, Erasmus, when it's you? (I love you I love you I love you I love you and I can't say this enough, my love, oh how I cherish you, I love you I love you I lo—)
I was not meant to be there. Being Clan Heir of the Itibashis meant my life belonged to my people. Those two years that I spent in Altschweier were never meant to mean anything. I knew that all along. I was supposed to go back to where I came from. Across the ocean, leaving you behind. I hated us (but I didn't, I swear, my love, I didn't) because there's wasn't supposed to be an ‘us’.
And yet, I loved you more than anything. Had I known about that letter of yours before, had I known that you had loved me since the moment you saw me: the same time I started loving you, Erasmus, I would've given up the entire world to be with you. No, on retrospect, even without that, I'd still give up everything. You have to understand, my love. I'm willing to give up everything now. My people. My Clan, my family. Everyone, Erasmus. Because you were the boy with eyes like forever, the boy I loved and feared. I was stupid to think I'd ever be able to live without you.
When time came—my last few months in Altschweier—you grew distant and it broke me. Then one night I couldn't take it anymore. I, ever so silently, slipped into your house and crawled into your arms. You broke into tears as I held you. I did too. I wanted nothing more than you to say you loved me. Your breath on my neck and skin under my palm were so warm. I remember it as though it was last night, not four years ago. I still have every curve and edge of your body engraved in my brain (because I think there's not a single body in this world that could fit with mine more perfectly than yours).
But you never told me you loved me. Not even when I said goodbye. I remember, you said, “Don't leave me, Icarus, I beg you. I lo— I can't, Icarus, I can't live without you. Please.”
And I had said, “Please, say it. I—All I want is for you to say it. Those words Erasmus.”
“But if I do and you won't stay, then I won't be able to—”
“Have faith in me. I will stay if you say those words.”
But then your father came. One look at me and disgust came upon his face. I remember, he had said, “Boy, I told you I don't want to see you standing on the threshold of my house! Be gone or else—”
He had slammed the door shut on my face. I didn't even get to touch you that day.
I left. Because what else could a coward like myself do? I left you, my love, oh my love, I left you, and I hate that I did, I regret it, and now you've left me too and oh how it aches. It's not a hollow in my chest, I do not feel like a part of me is missing. It's… more. You, the boy with big, deep, black eyes and the prettiest lips ever, you were the one with a golden soul. You hung the stars and the moon in the sky. You were everything. You were more than anything. You are more than everything. But I left. Stupidly, painfully, I left.
I did not know what I was doing to you. You wrote another note, a last wish, asking your father to deliver that letter of yours to me. And then you took away your life.
He did not know of my Clan, or that I was the Heir, the Prince. No matter how much he hated me, Erasmus, your father loved you. So he searched, even across the continent for four years. And now, your letter has reached me, along with the news that you are no more.
I though I died when I heard that. I didn't, even though, I do not deserve to draw a single breath more than you. So Erasmus, why is it that I'm still breathing? Is that what death felt like? Pain like every single cell of your body was being torn apart, being burnt, like acid pouring on a wound? Was it peaceful for you? I hope—I pray with all my life, whatever it is worth—that for you, it was easy. That for you, it was not painful, but an end to all of your pain (that I caused. Oh, how I hate myself for this). I do not know what death is like. I will find out shortly. Wait for me, Erasmus, I'm coming for you.
Your father, Erasmus, wanted the best for you. He might not have been right in wanting me to stay away from you because of my skin, but he was certainly correct in wanting to keep me away from you. You deserved the best. I was not it. I became the reason you took away your life.
I am ashamed. I—Erasmus, you do not know how dearly I love you still. I want to be with you again, my love.
The four month after I left Altschweier, I had had enough. I longed for you. It ached so bad. I had had enough, so I came back for you. Did you know that? No. You were gone by then. I left my Clan. The people who I was supposed to lead one day. My family. Everyone, so I could be with you, love. But there was no trace of you.
People said the Isidores had left the town. (You were gone by then, your mother dead because of grief, and father searching for me across the continent. Though I knew none of this at that time.) I thought there was nothing I could do.
But now, I know where you are. There is something I can do (and I will do it, shortly, my love. Let me finish writing this and then I'm coming to you, love. What joy it brings me, thinking of us reuniting!).
Do you remember that night when I held you? Do you remember what I had said? I had said, “I'll follow you anywhere, love.” (And oh, love. Wasn't that the first time I called you so? Yes, it was. But little did I know it was already late.) I am coming for you. I will hold you like that forever, Erasmus. That's all I ever want. I will whisper your name like a prayer because you are indeed my God.
I have been a selfish coward for so long. It's time for me to keep my promise. It's time. I'm coming for you, love.
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