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Hyacinthus
 

By Daniela Hernandez

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    By Brittany Ahn

   
When he thinks of pretty, he thinks of Hyacinthus and the flowers in his hair. Of his gold- dappled laughter and pomegranate-sweet lips. Of the embers of galaxies in his eyes and the starlight sewn into his skin. 

When he thinks of soft, he thinks of Hyacinthus, the boy who overwatered the plants because he didn’t know when to stop giving. Of the boy who filled the aimless day with dreams and hope. 

They saw the universe open up before them, the stars and moonlight mixing together into ichor. And they drank up, and laughed as it bubbled in their mouths. They kissed and caressed each other with smiles in their eyes, swearing at Uranus and his inky cape. They were crazy and young and in love for Hyacinthus stole his heart with a handful of feathers and a spoonful of Honey. 

When he thinks of grief, he thinks of Hyacinthus and how his only mistake was to fall in love with the wrong god. How if he had just chosen him, he would still hear Hyacinthus’s amorous voice and he would still be able to wrap his arms around his beloved. 

But his lover chose jeweled Apollo, god of everything beautiful and bright. His heart shriveled and tore until silvery moonlight ran down his cheeks. He thought this is the closest to human he would get to. He had never understood how the human heart was so small, yet so unfathomable in depth when it came to love. Maybe he did now. 

Gaia’s surface was not seen for three days straight as Apollo mourned the death of who was supposed to be his. It was said that the god of light rescued Hyacinthus’s soul from Hades’ hand, rendering his beloved the most beautiful flower, stained the color Apollo’s tears. They were the color of everything that he wasn’t. The tears were art and poetry combined with a trickle of music. All he was wind, cold and ugly and unwanted. Simply something that was taken for Granted. 

It was his fault. It was his fault. His fault. If only he hadn’t been so capricious. If only jealousy hadn’t boiled the ichor running in his godly veins. If only he hadn’t told the West Wind to throw that discus off course, meaning only to hurt the son of Zeus, but in a flash, he saw his worst nightmare: Hyacinthus’ once lively eyes empty and gone. Hyacinthus’ rosy cheeks getting paler by the second. Hyacinthus warmth becoming lost. If only… If only Hyacinthus had chosen him. He wasn’t as radiant as Apollo. He wasn’t a musician, or an artist, or a poet, but he could have 
given the same amount of love the god of light had for his lover. He could have given Hyacinthus everything. But now he had nothing. 

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