Imagine Icarus made his dash,
flew up there, touched it, panting.
He would say of it, he did not
know how to hold back tears.
He would say that its touch did not
scald him at all, nor brand; no pain.
I would speak with him; here, we’d
share some low whispers, finding sense.
We cannot. I see only
roofs and ash riding the worling wind.
He would— I say, my skin is
warmed by a gentle kiss now.
Recommendation: Percy Jackson and the Battle of the Labyrinth by Rick Riordan. That might have been the first time I read about Icarus.