I already know how this story ends.
Again, I am tumbling through the dark abyss of nothingness behind you. Again, I watch as your shoulders tighten in doom. Again, all I know is that I love you.
We won’t make it out, we never do. After eons of tumbling through this universe of caves behind you, I have become accustomed to that thought.
We won’t make it out, so instead, I wait.
I don’t know what will do it this time, whether your name is whispered in the dark, tricked by some god we have long forsaken into sounding like my voice. I don’t know what will do it this time. All I know is that each step through this cave, each step toward our tragic destiny, is one step closer to seeing your face once more.
So I stumble, and I fall, and I grip onto the walls of our cave—it is ours, now, don’t you think, Orpheus? After all this time please say at least one thing still belongs to us—and I wait.
I wait for you to turn.
Your mother will mourn us, Orpheus. I promise she will.
I can hear her now, wailing out her awful, lovely melody of loss. I can feel her tears, washing through the grime on my hands.
They flush away my sin, Orpheus, but they long for you.
I did not know gods could mourn until one was mourning me. I did not know gods could mourn until I watched Persephone weep, glittering stars trailing down her cheeks.
The stars.
I’d like to see the stars again, Orpheus, but one fateful glimpse of your eyes is worth more than any natural gift a god or goddess could bestow upon me.
I love the stars, the sun, and the fields of wildflowers scattered across the sky, but I love you more.
Again, you are praying through the notes of your lyre, the same one I fell in love with. Again, you are changing their minds.
They give us an option, a chance, a curse.
We’ll never make it out, but at least you are here with me forever.
We are reborn, time and time again, in this cave. I can feel it, how our lifelines are decorated in iambic verse and the voices of poets recount our tragic romance. I can hear them, Orpheus.
They’re still singing faintly in my ear.
They remind me of our love and our loss. It’s so beautiful.
Again and again, they tell our story.
Again and again, we fall in love.
The sound of a lyre, the sharp sting of a snake bite on my ankle, the look in your eyes when you turn for the last time.
The one constant is our love.
The gods are singing it; I can hear them.
The gods and the poets and the rest of humanity dance along the pathways our footsteps have carved until their feet are bare and bleeding and their voices are ragged and sore.
Until our certain calamity is reduced to art and allusions, through the music of the earth and the depths of Hades, love surges in the steps that keep me from you.
And so I wait.
Maybe I should be scared, maybe I should be wretchedly, violently, lamenting to the sky with each twist of my ankle and knot in my hair, but how could I?
How could I? When all I know is that with each step I take, I love you more. When every universe is another way for you to profess your love for me through the strings of your lyre and the turn of your heel.
So it’s not a surprise when I stumble.
It’s not a surprise when I watch you begin to reach for me.
I’ll never be sorry for this.
All I know is that I’m waiting for you.
I love you, Orpheus. I love you, I love you, I love you.
