A boy in the north once learned to move like water.
Sparta bent his arches, forged each scar,
taught tendons what the gods demand of daughters.
They shaped a soldier. Out stepped a star.
You rose from foam and claimed the shore in sequins,
a woman made of fire and aftermath—
too bright for temples, holier than heavens.
Olympus feared the light and barred the path.
They said you burned too strange. They locked the door.
But gods don't die. They only change the sky.
I miss you like the rain against the shore—
so close to sea, yet only sliding by.
Venus, rise. I'm watching from the dark.
Come back to me. Come back, my morning star.