antinous among the reeds By Yves Olade

antinous among the reeds

When I was drowning I thought about the
light instead of the water, the accident
instead of the ache. Those half-drunk
moments on Tuesday nights when you’d
pass me a bottle that was empty. And I’d
say something like,
“Tell me about love.”
and you’d never answer, you’d just take

the bottle back and pretend you hadn’t
sucked out every good thing from inside it. I
knew I couldn’t keep you from the start.

Somehow it only ever rained when we
were waiting for the train to come. We’d
hold hands under the seats and pretend
I wasn’t crying, like I couldn’t feel the
water in my lungs already. At every stop
we’d smile about the weather, while you
pointed saying,
“Look how the
desert is always reaching outwards.”
Only something so vast and arid could
understand a hunger like mine.

When later you are picking my bones
clean, all the water will surge back out of
me. I can imagine myself: washed-out,
cold, pondweed tangled in my hair along
with your fingers. I have always
understood why vultures mate for life.
You can’t live among a sickness without
starting to become it. There is a quiet
kind of dying in always waiting
for death.

By Yves Olade


Yves Olade is an accidental academic and is currently one of the laziest students at one of the best universities in the world. Currently 19, and living both in his parent’s house and in terrible uni accommodation, he likes driving across town to write poetry on his boyfriend’s floor.

One thought on “antinous among the reeds By Yves Olade

Leave a Reply