Ariadne, Dido, and Clytie—
ancestors of the tribe called Beautiful Losers.
Their loves were alone, half-met,
steeped in the clandestine ache of disappointment.
Spring meets Summer.
Summer elopes with Fall.
Fall yearns for Winter.
Winter chases after Spring.
The cycle of lovers’ tales.
Some loves are born to be forever chasing.
Even beauty cannot possess the souls of the beloved.
Votives of curse are lit for Hecate.
Still, Ariadne found herself
in Dionysus’ arms—god of wine and pleasure.
Dido let Aeneas touch her aching love in a cave.
Clytie burned for Helios,
who left her for a mortal princess.
But I am chasing the shadow of his past,
the ghost of a lover no longer himself—
his eyes, the blue sky—so beautiful, so sorrowful
they puncture my heart with helpless longing.
I write his name on papyrus,
seal it with the candle’s tears,
and burn it in the quiet flame,
calling his name within.
The doors of time close.
Candlelight flickers in the wind of the hour.
Wistful images of his face—young, old—
even those I would forget, I cannot forsake.
Listen, World 🌏 ⭐️🧚♀️ 
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