Poets will tell about him in their lyrics. 
Singers will write songs in his grace.
Writers will make stories about his beauty.
But none of them will remember him as well as I.

For I was the one who held him in my arms.
I was there as his blood soaked the ground.
I was there as he drew his last breath and his heartbeat faded into nothingness.

I was the one he loved.
And I loved him in turn.

He was mine.
My flower.

Hyacinthus.