Apollo

There was the whisper of a man
floating in on the sweet crispness of the
lost summer charging into brilliant autumn.
Laughter and roses brought him to my sight.
Behold, Apollo, the golden glory,
the hope for a shriveled womb.
Light touches and genuine affection witnessed by a mountain moon, but then,
gold-tinted glasses broken with technology.
His mane is not as lustrous. Or so I think.
His height not as impressive. Or so I wish.
Laughter not as joyful. Or so I hope.
Smile not beholden to the glory of light and creation, for the butterflies, in their whirlwind of longing,
batter their frail bodies
on my rib cage and collapse in a river
of unshed tears.
I smile, in my confusion, and toast
to his happiness.
I convince myself I am not broken.
I am not longing
for the feel of his skin on mine.
His breath on my hair.
His taste on my lips.
He was a whisper,
fleeing on the wind, back to
Mt. Olympus, to his goddess,
and I, the human moment,
a friend.