I wish I could say I knew every inch of them: her every line and curve, their every thought and feeling, his every moral and belief, but I don’t. 

         I don’t know the sound of her feet running on soft dirt, or the gentle graze of their breath against my skin, or the way he likes to be touched. 

         I am not the feminine to her masculine, the Achilles to their Patroclus, or the Hyacinthus to his Apollo. 

         I will know none of them in death for my soul is made only of what the gods have gifted me, and these people I call my lovers gave themselves to me of their own volition. 

         All I am is me and everything I have can be defined by them. In dawn and dusk, they are my waking and dreaming thoughts. 

         Even if I am not granted an eternity with her, I cherish holding them in my arms, and resting my head on his chest while I can.