Perseus
Lying awake at night, I can hear it: the way they breathed,
the respiration through a hundred tiny sleeping mouths.
It seems so shameful to have survived all–
the wrath of Argos, the refusal of Atlas–only to suffer thus:
her reflection still takes hold, but slowly. Ever so slowly.
To have grown cold at once would have been a blessing, a mercy.
Instead, each night in Andromeda's bed, another small piece
goes still and breaks away. I will eventually be the crumbs
she sweeps from the bed. Fragments, forgotten on the floor,
too large to join the dust of legends.
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