I Loved You Like Icarus Loved the Sun

There are some loves that don’t just warm — they burn.
They are not safe, they are not slow, and they are certainly not survivable.
But oh, how glorious they are in the moment before the fall.

I loved you like Icarus loved the sun.

With reckless devotion.
With an ache so beautiful it felt holy.
With wings patched together out of borrowed hope and trembling hands, knowing full well they weren’t made to last.

I soared toward you, not because I didn’t know the risk — but because I did.
You were radiant. Dangerous. Everything I was warned about.
And still, I chose you.

Maybe love like that was never meant to be easy. Maybe some hearts are built for fire, not for comfort.
I didn’t tiptoe around you. I didn’t calculate the distance.
I flew headfirst into your light, into your warmth — into the very thing that would undo me.
Not because I thought you’d catch me, but because even falling from you felt worth it.

People call it foolish, what I did. They talk of moderation. Of restraint.
But have they ever seen the sky from that height?
Have they ever felt the wind tremble beneath their ribs as they reached for something so impossibly bright?
Even as the wax melted, even as the feathers came loose, I loved every moment of that flight.
Every heartbeat in your orbit.

And yes, the sea came after. The silence. The drowning.
But tell me — what is a life without a love that makes you forget to be careful?

I loved you like Icarus loved the sun.
Not because I thought I’d survive it.
But because for one fleeting, blinding second —
I touched the divine.

I hope you never miss me again, Sam.