You already know how this story ends.
Again, I am stumbling through this cave ahead of you. Again, we are doomed. Again, all I know is that I love you.
We won’t make it out; we never do. When our love is stretched between the tongues and teeth of the poets, and our lives are morphed through changes, the only thing that stays the same is the ending.
We never make it out. It’s always my fault.
I’m so sorry, Eurydice.
The stars that make up my constellation blinked in false benignant at my birth. My mother’s blessing, sung through soft lips, caresses my infant skin.
Does she mourn? Can gods mourn?
Please, Eurydice, tell me who will mourn us.
I’m so sorry that I have cursed us like this.
Time and time again, we follow our fate through the walls of Hades, and the jeering laughter of Olympus haunts our every footstep.
I know the ending will never change, but if I can just make it this time, you’ll see the stars again.
The stars, the stars, the stars.
In some other, ancient lifetime, when our mortal bodies still travel through the flowers of the earth, Hermes tells me of my talent, my gift. My fingers ache on the strings of my lyre; blood pours from my fingertips and paints the skies with my legend.
“You will be immortalized, remembered for all of eternity,” Hermes tells me. But he doesn’t understand.
One moment looking at your face is worth more than an eternity of fame.
Please, Eurydice, tell him how my bones ache and my skin bleeds with a horrific yearning for the feeling of your hand, the touch of your skin, the boundless warmth of your gaze.
To love is to turn, and I’ve always loved you too much. I’m sorry that our love has cursed us.
If I loved you less, we would both make it out this time.
If I loved you less, we could grow old together under the watchful gaze of the ancient Gods and the endless timbre of my lyre. I won’t play it for anyone but you; I won’t let the stars steal my gift that was made for you alone.
I’m sorry that I love you as much as I do.
If I loved you less, I wouldn’t turn.
But, instead, we are doomed to travel through time in this tunnel. Instead, we hear the rubble of empires long forgotten cascade down around us. Instead, I ache and I ache and I ache.
And I love you.
Now, I watch the flickering glow of Apollo’s mocking grin dance across the edge of my vision.
For a split second, my eyes are filled with wonder at the hope born in the mouth of our cave.
We’ll make it this time, Eurydice, I can feel it.
Just follow me, Eurydice, and you’ll see the stars again.
But it’s not to be.
Instead, I hear you stumble.
Instead, I reach back to save you from the harsh, stone floor.
Your hand is in mine, our eyes are locked. For a second, the universe lays still in its silence; even Olympus stifles its scorn.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
I love you, Eurydice.
