THE DAY I HURT YOU

on the coast of troy,
on the fields of death
did i come to you,
my patroclus,
bathed in the sweat
of mortals that had died
at my beckoning hand,
and bounty that hung loose
like my honour and my pride
for in your eyes i saw
the doubling of your gaze
as you looked at me
the pelides
with a blurred and confused haze

but i ignored it then
as i always had
rambling on about my triumphs
as your face turned mad
with disgust and rage
at the turmoils of war
my sweet, dear patroclus,
i did warn you of this lore:
how men turn to devils
how devils turn to men,
how the gods are nothing
against the wit of our pens

but you still stayed beside me
as you promised in your prayers—
the ones you mumbled as i slept,
your fingers woven in my hair
i will stay with you, you breathed
till the end of my days,
and when your feet hit the earth
we shall meet beyond the grave.

but words are temporary
as are our youthful things
and the permanence or our love
faltered in the springs
that nestled upon the coast,
with briseis
your friend,
who agamemnon claimed his
rightful prize, when
she was mine
upon your request.

"bring her back,"
you begged and pleaded.

"no."
i replied, eyes sturdy on the shore.

"bring her back,"
you repeated once more
and when i did not reply
i'm sure it hit your kore.

i loved you, patroclus,
and i still do.
but i am aristos achaian.
i am brewed with pride.

"this is not the man
i knew in my youth."

i looked at you,
staring: "i am glad
you have welcomed
the knowing truth."

i am sorry for being so cold, my patroclus, when you are warmth, and cannot muster it.