Eurydice
The Echo Left in the Underworld
He sang me back from the dead. Then looked away.
They tell my story like it’s about him. The poet. The lyre. The fatal glance. But I was more than the hush behind his footsteps. I was warmth. I was choice. I was almost free. Now I am a sigh stitched into the dark, and still—I remember the sun.
What I'm Into: the warmth of thyme underfoot, the sound of a lyre from above, river reeds at dusk, almost remembering laughter, the silence after a song ends
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