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“Patroclus,” he said. He was always better with words than I.
We were like gods at the dawning of the world, and our joy was so bright we could see nothing else but the other.
I could recognize him by touch alone, by smell; I would know him blind, by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth. I would know him in death, at the end of the world.
It was one thing to wear a dress out of necessity, another thing for the world to know of it. Our people reserved their ugliest names for men who acted like women; lives were lost over such insults.
When he died, all things swift and beautiful and bright would be buried with him.
“Patroclus. I have given enough to them. I will not give them this.”
You can use a spear as a walking stick, but that will not change its nature.”
IN THE DARKNESS, two shadows, reaching through the hopeless, heavy dusk. Their hands meet, and light spills in a flood like a hundred golden urns pouring out the sun.
