` ` Goodbye Achilles ` `

And I can see his face clearly from here, as always. The curve of his nose, the tilt of his eyes, that furrow to his brow that never quite eases, even when he seems at ease. Today, I can see the way his eyes begin to wrinkle at the edges, stress and smiles leaving behind the beginning of imprints upon his flesh. I have always thought that was beautiful: aging.

One day those lines will grow into crow's feet. They will widen, and he will grow similar around his lips, around his smile, and the wisps of hair there will fade into grays, whites, or even salt-and-pepper beautifully, like speckling of paint. I even imagine him with a head of pure white, and poking and prodding at it- I'd tug at it probably, to watch the way his lips turn, his face scrunches, the way annoyance and fondness swirls and mixes together. He is so lively, expressionate, it's hard not to egg him on.

He would grow old. His skin would wrinkle and his hands would shrivel, all with that Blond of his and the people he has brought together close.

And I.

I take in the face of youth I see now. Blueprints to a building I will never see completed.

He will age, and I will not.

I look upon his features, and see the hopeful tint to his eyes, the same he always gets when I leave. When I say I will return, promising to come back with stories and whatever I can scrounge up for a gift. The love he never admits to is shown purely in these moments.

Something in my chest twitches, then, the image of his head of gray souring. It curdles, the sudden sting burning my throat, burning the back of my eyes.

I will not see him age.

I will not see him again.

This, I will admit to myself, with the weight of my actions pressing against my chest, a stone in my gut.

This, I believe, will be the most selfish action I will ever take.