Achilles' heel

When I lit the fire and forged the steel

who could have foreseen how it would shape

this war of mine?

You saw a quiver in my hands, hidden under two fists,

and prophesied my defeat; I saw yours on mine

and felt the chains of the past.

Why did you grip them tighter when you knew

we wouldn't last?

It split me apart. I was easy to love

but painful to hold; a blazing fire.

I burn forests, I dare not stay within

a hearth. Did you dance to these flames

in desire or agony? Does my burn kiss

shallow or deep? Don't lie;

it was you who chose to kneel. When you scooped me up

in your hands and rested me on your candles;

a warmth I'd never known

and I choked.

Naked candles waited; provoked. I couldn't breathe.

War instills fear of a greater destruction than burning alone.

By a timid light, you saw a shiver in my hands, a shield

of two fists against something beyond your reach,

and prophesied my defeat; I saw yours on mine

and felt the chains of commitment.

Should I've handed you the reins or drawn the steel?

Were you always planning to ambush me?

Don't lie;

it was you who caused the smoke. When you veiled us

in dark with a blow and wandered into the empty night alone;

a biting chill all you left behind

and I wrapped myself in your misty cloak.

It was surreal: a winterly cold met with

the midst of September. But I would not tremble;

freezing blood cannot weaken the bold. You are not

my Achilles' heel; just a harsh reminder

that life may deceive. Stay on the warpath, Achilles;

do not lay with her who means to be shaped

like an arrow.

Yet the path of war always leads back

home. And in the ashes I saw a shape

I could have loved.

And it mouthed the questions I dragged from the smoke:

Did you hesitate?

Did you ever look back?

Is it all too late?

Don't lie;

it will not change our fate. But I

won't go to war for you, if you can't

understand why.

You, who would help me into this armor,

fit the helmet, fasten the breastplate,

send me out and cheer me on; then

leave me out to die.

Here in the dead quiet of the aftermath,

I understood:

There are no heroes on the battlefield,

only dreamers.

My weapon is as ready as ever

in its sheath, pointed at the

ground. Quietly repeating the line:

just give the word.

Just give the word.

Just give me time.

And when there is no more time in the world,

will the longing finally cease? Will I hear your silence

and find peace, not my broken heart?

Being apart is already old, but

old things sting harder.

I know: there are only ghosts now

in the smoke. And a fire needs to

breathe.

I know: your hand fit into mine

like a match in a matchbox; kept

for safekeeping, never to be lit.

Without a fire, a house is not a home.

And I, afraid to burn you, held you so tenderly

I did not notice when I let you go.

I know: now I must burn alone.

This grief is my own, and mine to carry

like a burden, like a sword;

sharpened, heavy, and, above all,

carefully concealed.

You are not Briseis, but the arrow

that I adored.

I, who cursed these chains, who

needed them the most.

I, who needs these hands to be fists

once more, for fighting is easier

than loving ghosts.