He called himself Helios,
but there was no dawn in him.
Only light that burns without giving,
a glare that exposes
then abandons.
He rose like certainty –
gold on the surface,
promising warmth,
but every orbit ended in distance.
Revenge lived in his rays,
quiet, patient,
like heat that cracks stone over time.
Not rage,
worse.
Indifference sharpened into fire.
He did not chase,
he did not plead.
He simply watched things wither
under the weight of his absence.
And still,
he called it love.
But love does not scorch
what it refuses to hold.
So I turned away from the sky,
refused the ritual of waiting,
let night take me whole.
Better the dark—
honest, complete—
than a sun
that rises only to remind you
that it will leave again.
