When I think of Orpheus, I think of lust and other sins. Wildfire sunsets during the summer that choke the air with sublime beauty, smoke, and death. When we could taste the screams of faraway loss as we strolled to a nearby human-made lake to make out in the view of bright moss.
When I think of Orpheus, I think of flesh on flesh when we fused on his bed listening to Suicide’s first album on vinyl. The devil’s ivy filled the space with a sprawling hope I so desperately wanted inside of me.
When I think of Orpheus, I think of the last time we were together. He apologized to me with tears in his eyes and ejaculated sorrow on my tongue because I demanded it.
When I think of Orpheus, I think of all the times I pulled off his shirt, and divinity inserted itself into our sweat. Each droplet embodied a symphonic energy of our love and desire, unending, as we writhed atop a gray comforter silken with our confessional moans of undying love.
When I think of Orpheus, I think of when he whipped homemade dressing on the counter where he smacked my ass. Swirls of apple cider vinegar, extra virgin olive oil, raw honey, and spice. This recipe is the incantation I use to conjure his ghost these days. I guess I can be a little bit of a hopeless necromantic. The real potency comes from the salt of my tears, that bleed with longing to join him in Hades. To kiss him as softly as clouds while we intertwine between heaven and earth, and he enters my pink gloaming.
When I think of Orpheus, I think of when he used to tell me: "Just give me a night every now and then so I don’t die." The distance equaled murder, we agreed. Murder of the soul. The restriction of muses. Neither of us ever believed it would come true.
When I think of Orpheus, I think of begging the accidental reaper, "Please don’t kill the twin flames who guffaw in unison at the most inappropriate and gruesome death scenes in Akira Kurosawa’s Ran, at the cinema full of everyone else’s gasps." We were always mutually, individually, and independently outcasts. But the reaper doesn’t care for our distilled tastes and morbid sense of humor.
When I think of Orpheus, I think of how much of a nightmare life can be without him. But then he visits me in dreams so sweetly, and for that, I’m eternally grateful.
When I think of Orpheus, I think of how he died the same day we were supposed to hang out. I think of blaming myself for something that’s not my fault.
When I think of Orpheus, I think of how authorities say, "accidental overdose," and I say, "fentanyl poisoning." The world says, "relapse," and I say, "reliving too much pain over and over, to the point of the only choices feeling like madness or oblivion."
When I think of Orpheus, I think of the shaming narratives around addiction. I think of how a label like "addict" is deeply problematic and perpetuates a script of failure, a stuck-in-it-forever-ness that makes it hard to escape impulse. This negative branding unconsciously makes others anticipate failure and treat folks as if they have already failed because they inevitably will since they’re an addict.
When I think of Orpheus, I think of how we both—at different points in our lives—crawled out of gutters and from under freeway bridges with bruised ribs and syringes dangled from bloodied limbs. Sick and sullen with escapism. Obsessed and addicted to flirting with death. But without actually expecting to die. That wasn’t ever supposed to happen. Especially since by the time we met, we were both sober and immersed in the light of poetry and music.
When I think of Orpheus, I think of a percussionist’s hands gently cupping my face and smothering me in the sweetest kisses, from the time I crossed the threshold into his home until we landed in his bed, switching positions 156 times because it was so fun and felt so good.
When I think of Orpheus, I think of how I swallowed his breath, and he swallowed mine. Back and forth, exchanging vital forces recycled through the lungs. An innate tantra in the moment of our union.
When I think of Orpheus, I think of how the stars spilled fables of a lion and goat fumbling under the bull’s moon during the spring of 2017. We toggled between quintessential beauty and beast roles, depending on our infidelity. Everyone involved was very emotional and sometimes a bit vain, in an animalistic sort of way. I guess, technically, no one really cheated because we were always broken up during our rendezvous.
When I think of Orpheus, I think of how somewhere along the way, we figured out that when people get defensive and accuse you of being judgmental, they’re really just judging themselves.
When I think of Orpheus, I think of chastity until I can get my ghost shit straight.
