c a r p e n o c t e m.

horendale:

Patroclus, he says. Patroclus. Patroclus. Over and over until it is sound only. 

Somewhere Odysseus is kneeling, urging food and drink. A fierce red rage comes, and he almost kills him there. But he would have to let go of me. He cannot. He holds me so tightly i can feel the faint bet of his chest, like the wings of a moth. 

An echo, the last bit of spirit still tethered to my body. 

A torment.