​There wasn’t any surprise that Skala Eresou was as mysterious as the woman that lived here the longest. The school she created and carefully lead every day for the past seven years was blooming, quickly becoming the most prestigious one in this part of Greece, or even whole Greece. Girls were coming here from the whole country, of all ages. Young, barely reaching the age, or the ones that missed their chance in youth and wanted to try again. Widows of soldiers, runaways of failing marriages. No woman was refused a place, a shelter. That was one of the most important lessons of the academia: sisterhood was the only way to survive in the world of men.

 

Every newcomer quickly realised that Sappho was always right. She always knew how to solve everyone’s problem, what to sacrifice and how to improve poetry. She knew how to advise us, how to deal with any sickness, how to improve the mood. She was our caretaker, our teacher, and most importantly, our muse.

 

Nearly every day another girl would come to class, reading her poem with red cheeks and shaky breath. Sappho’s name never was said out loud, but it was easy to guess as her look was always avoided, how hands were nervously squeezed on girls’ knees. They all loved Sappho in the same way one could love the moon. They admired her beauty, her long hair, graceful movements, soothing voice. They admired everything abouther. They giggled and blushed when she praised their work, gasped when she brushed their skin, whispered exchanging the experience of eating dinner by her side. They loved her in a way one loves gods. She was out of reach, but impossible not to admire. All those girls, all this love, and not a single person got her as I did.

 

Don’t get me wrong, I wrote poems too. Poems, songs, melodies, everything I created and still create worships Sappho. But I’ve spent here the last four years. I’ve learned some- tricks. I can recognise Sappho’s patterns, her white lies braided into verses, the names she uses to talk about others. She is a mastermind, yes. The greatest poetess to ever step on the Earth, of course. Master of words. A musician like no other. Her voice is softer than silk. And her skin-

 

Oh, I wrote many poems about her skin. And hair. And lips.

 

A hand on my shoulder brought me out of my thoughts.

 

“We’re heading back. Are you coming?”

 

“In a moment. You go first.” 

 

A couple of girls, roughly my age brushed the sand off their tunics and waved at me goodbye. After the classes and dinner finished, we’ve decided to spend the rest of the day on the beach. We weren’t especially close, not too intimate, even if we spend years in each other’s company. But it wasn’t their fault, really. They all were brilliant, talented and had a bright future ahead, even if they were meant to marry for the family. I could overhear their conversations sometimes. Their dreams of the wedding day. I envied them. There was peace of mind in being able to experience it all for the first time. Falling in love and knowing that this is the person you will spend the rest of your life with. Touching your lips and knowing those will be the only lips you will kiss. I envied them, because I knew that no matter who my parents will choose for my marriage, I will look at my husband wishing he was somebody else.

 

The clouds covered the weak light moon was giving, casting a veil of shadow on the beach. The time was flying nevertheless my opinion about marriage. Warm waves shyly reaching my sandals as the tide started turning high only reminded me more about this. I stepped deeper into the water, feeling the fabric of my tunic soak. It was getting heavier; if I walked far enough, it could drown me, pull me to the bottom, let the waves crash over my head. For a moment I imagined how this would feel. 

 

Sand squeaked under the weight of the steps, but I didn’t turn. I could recognise those steps after nights of meeting here. I could recognise her shadow, dancing on curves of the sand. I could recognise the way air vibrated as we slowly closed the space between us. 

 

Sappho’s hair was pinned up high and I could tell that the ends were tickling the delicate skin on her neck. She only left loose couple of locks: they shaped around her face, curling at the end. They made her face look like a heart, but maybe it was just me: whenever I looked at her, I would only see hearts.

 

I could feel the grains of sand stick to my wet tunic. I let them. I also let the water drip with each of my steps, creating a wet path as we walked arm to arm, back towards the buildings.

 

We walked this way so many times: I knew which step was loose, which could hold my body weight, which rock ripped my tunic, forcing me to spend hours stabbing myself in the fingers. Sappho’s fingers brushed against mine. Her hands were dry, but not in a bad way – that was just effect of sea and sand, strumming the instruments and helping with the chores. For a moment that was all- a brush, an accident. But then she touched my hand again, reached closer, tangled our fingers. Our palms fit each other perfectly. We were together, after all. Close.

 

“Sappho-“

 

“Don’t,” she interrupted me without hesitation. Her hand squeezed mine quickly. “Tonight, it’s just us.”

 

Tonight, was just us. Evenings were my favourite. We could allow each other for a longer look. For a blush on the cheeks. For squeeze of a hand, for a stolen kiss, for a gasp of fresh air, when it felt like the Earth stopped because it was just us. 

 

By the time we reached her bedroom, Sappho already had a green ribbon in hand. She gathered my hair to tie them in the back, – to keep them from interrupting, as she said once – fingers quickly weaving through. With a few more steps she landed on the bed. I kneeled, legs on both sides of her hips, brushed the hair from her face, moving as closely as our earthly bodies would allow us. 

 

“Sappho.” I repeated seeing in her eyes she got distracted. “What are you thinking about?”

 

It was my favourite question to ask her. There was no doubt that Sappho was the greatest Poetess (and a Poet – but males’ ego couldn’t bear that) to ever walk the Earth, but when it came to speaking her thoughts out of verse-

 

“What?” 

 

My fingers brushed the tanned neckline until they reached the top of her tunic.

 

“What are you thinking about?”

 

She stared back at me, eyes carefully following my every move. Her chest rose with a held breath, pinkish blush flushed onto her cheeks. I could see a shiver run down her spine as she shuddered. She raised her hand, as if she wanted to touch me, grab my arm, but it dropped as quickly as a broken string. My fingers moved onto her chest, synchronising my breath with hers. 

 

“You.” She grasped finally. “It’s always you.”

 

“You wrote a greater poem about a cloud passing the sky, my love.” Breath in. Breath out. Breath in. “What else?”

 

“I cannot write poems about you.”

 

I know.

 

“Poetry is immortal. It’s an art no human can ever master. We can pretend- We can cherish the words, we can admire the melody, but there is not enough words in the entire world to make the poetry complete. And you, my beloved, my sun and moon, my clouds in the sky- My muse.”

 

This time I could feel myself shiver under her words. Cheeks hot, my hand twitched over her heart. Sappho covered my palm with her own.

 

“You, you are the greatest fruit of life. I can write about cloud, knowing it will pass, turn into rain. I can write about moon, knowing it will wax and wane. I can write about the gods, about heroes, because praising them is nothing compared to worshipping you.” My eyes moved across her face, trying to notice and memorise every detail. I already did; I knew of the mole behind her left ear, about the scar under her chin. The three freckles under her eye. They also looked heart shaped to me. “Poetry is immortal, but you are right here, right now, and that is the only thing important. I will not allow philosophers to read about your eyes, about your voice, about your fingertips, because none of them will ever worship you like I do. None of them will understand that what they think of love is false, as long as they did not were in love with you.”

 

“Sappho-“

 

“Poetry isn’t a mirror. It’s a mare attempt at painting. You- You do not deserve mere.”

 

Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in. Our chests and hands moved in unison. 

 

“That’s what I’m thinking about. How I pity future poets, lovers, muses, because not one of them will know the true meaning of loving and worshipping. How their poems will be empty words, because if they can write about love- they never loved.”

 

My cheeks were burning, but I didn’t notice the tears until Sappho brushed them off. And then she kissed me.

 

“I will never write a poem about you,” she whispered, her hand holding my waist, her knee brushing my thigh, “because I love you in a way that was not meant for mortals.”

 

Our hands laid together, tangled lazily, fingers still shaking from exhaustion. First ray of orange sun sneaked through the high window, illuminating her skin. 

 

“Sappho,” I started, my eyes stuck in the white wall. The subject of my parents and unavoidable engagement was returning to my thoughts nearly every day now. 

 

“Shh.” Her voice was like a safe harbour for my storm of thoughts. “There’s nothing there yet. Don’t think about them. It’s just us now.”

 

It’s just us now.