Kruger

@Kruger377

Joined July 2023

413 Following

127 Followers

4.2K Posts

Kruger377 retweeted

Lysxis

@Lysxis

about 11 hours ago

QT your Pathway to the Unknown

193

Kruger @Kruger377

about 8 hours ago

@Lysxis I so missed your art, Buddies.

Kruger377 retweeted

Lysxis

@Lysxis

about 11 hours ago

QT Eyes

303

Kruger377 retweeted

Lysxis

@Lysxis

about 9 hours ago

Cyparissus (On the Metamorphosis of Blue) The color of his skin is not white but *glaukos*— a blue that has given up on light. Under the heavy crown of leaves, he is already beginning to taste like wood. Apollo held him like a broken tripod. “Do not,” the god said, but the boy was already translating himself into an adjective. A long, vertical ache. To love a boy is to watch him become a noun you cannot decline. Look at his eyes. The eyelashes are wet with what we call history but he called the weight of a hand on his neck. There is a tiny fracture in the air between them where the arrow passed. [Some philologists argue that *pothos* is a kind of thirst that increases as you drink.] His throat is a column of salt and cold sap. He wanted to be still. He wanted the god to stop looking at him with such bright, unbearable grammar. The stag was just an excuse, of course. One does not weep this hard for a beast unless the beast is the only part of the lover that was allowed to die. Now the green begins at his temples. “I will mourn you forever,” the god whispered, which is the most violent thing you can say to someone who is trying to slip quietly into the soil. To be immortalized is to be pinned like a wet wing to a blue page. He does not look back. His pointed ears catch the sound of the wind before it becomes a word. We call this a transformation. He called it getting out of the sun.

$Lysxis's tweet photo. Cyparissus (On the Metamorphosis of Blue) The color of his skin is not white but *glaukos*— a blue that has given up on light. Under the heavy crown of leaves, he is already beginning to taste like wood. Apollo held him like a broken tripod. “Do not,” the god said, but the boy was already translating himself into an adjective. A long, vertical ache. To love a boy is to watch him become a noun you cannot decline. Look at his eyes. The eyelashes are wet with what we call history but he called the weight of a hand on his neck. There is a tiny fracture in the air between them where the arrow passed. [Some philologists argue that *pothos* is a kind of thirst that increases as you drink.] His throat is a column of salt and cold sap. He wanted to be still. He wanted the god to stop looking at him with such bright, unbearable grammar. The stag was just an excuse, of course. One does not weep this hard for a beast unless the beast is the only part of the lover that was allowed to die. Now the green begins at his temples. “I will mourn you forever,” the god whispered, which is the most violent thing you can say to someone who is trying to slip quietly into the soil. To be immortalized is to be pinned like a wet wing to a blue page. He does not look back. His pointed ears catch the sound of the wind before it becomes a word. We call this a transformation. He called it getting out of the sun.$