I should probably be revering you, since you used to dwell with the godheads, were the lover of a half-divinity, and were the greatest warrior in the War of Troy. Yet, little do you epiphanize the way one yelled and wailed one's lungs out in an attempt to make you oblige Achilles.
He triumphed. (But at what cost?)
Perhaps you have tasted all of this. I'm unsure if I can bleed all that I have to say to you. Yet, here I am choking on my blood to pen down this letter to you. ( Or consider this a vexed eulogy ).
You edified love to one, and the next moment left one wondering if what you did to Achilles is what lovers do. Aren't lovers supposed to derange their might just to witness their other-half's irises the next sundown they're crafting sonnets, or just hear them hum about their grandmother's first love while they're digging a grave of dried roses and decaying crysanthemums, or have a glimpse of their serene reflection in the handmirrors of their untimely demise while they make love ?
C-l-e-o-p-a-t-r-a , almost had all of your letters, but did that bind you to jump into the abyss of Hades just as she did ?
Yes, your valour killed you, and Achilles.
The junctures were not enough.
The junctures when you could wordship his tepid tears, cascading down your crimson face as he played your mother's lyre under the harvest moon of a fate together. The junctures when you could tenderly tuck in the lilac crocus behind his golden ear, as the sun curled on every curve, every thew of his utopian frame.
His pleas were not enough. His alerts were not enough. He was not enough to hold you till noon .
(Was he not enough? )
Miller says your fates converged beyond death. I hope it's the axiom, even if I don't believe in afterlives anymore.
You learned by heart the arcs of his anatomy, and vowed to recognise it even in madness.
AN INSANITY DIPPED IN LOVE.
AN INSANITY DRAINED OF LOVE.
You had what the gods feared, and what mortals yearned an evermore of.