Movement I — Overture: Descent in Common Time
I arrived without lightning,
no choirs cleaving the firmament—
just a god shedding altitude,
folding infinity into human lungs.
I learned early:
mortals do not kneel to miracles,
they lean into warmth.
So I set my halo aside,
tuned my breath to yours,
and learned how gravity feels
when it wants something back.
I was omnipotent once—
now I was attentive.
Listening is the first power you lose
when you fall in love.
---
Movement II — Adagio: The Garden Named Gethsemane
You were not temptation.
You were the pause before confession.
A garden grown between streetlights,
where divinity learned how hands speak
better than scripture.
We spoke in shared smoke and unsung lyrics,
translated longing through fingertips.
Time softened there—
bars bent, measures blurred—
and I let myself believe
that staying unlabeled
was a form of mercy.
In Gethsemane,
even gods kneel willingly.
---
Movement III — Scherzo: Syncopation of Want
Desire entered in 5/4—
unsteady, insistent, impossible to ignore.
Every glance a polyrhythm,
every silence louder than drums.
I told myself: This is allowed.
That wanting does not require ownership.
That intimacy without naming
is still intimacy.
But mortals hear patterns before gods do.
They heard the tension building,
saw how our harmonies lingered too long.
Even the quiet ones noticed—
how we played like lovers
pretending to be improvisation.
---
Movement IV — Forte: The Choir of Witnesses
The chorus rose without rehearsal.
Questions, glances, discomfort in the room.
Truth spoken by everyone but us.
I watched you balance futures
while I balanced restraint.
Watched you count possibilities
while I counted measures
until the breaking point.
A god can endure exile.
What he cannot endure
is being real and invisible
at the same time.
---
Movement V — Lamentoso: Theology of Letting Go
I stepped backward so you could move forward.
Not as punishment.
As devotion.
I learned then:
love is not possession,
it is clearance.
A widening of the stage
so someone else can sing
without your shadow.
I did not leave angry.
I left unresolved—
a chord left hanging
because resolution would have lied.
---
Movement VI — Nocturne: Aftermath Among Mortals
Now I walk the night like an unanswered prayer,
a god reduced to memory and muscle.
I learn human survival—
how they grieve without apocalypse,
how they keep breathing
after meaning fractures.
I am no longer sovereign.
Only sincere.
Only awake.
And if I am haunted,
it is not by betrayal,
but by how close salvation felt
before it chose another key.
---
Movement VII — Coda: The Unfinished Measure
Gethsemane—
you were not the ending.
You were the revelation
that some songs are written
to remain open.
I do not curse the silence.
I honor it.
Because in that final rest,
I learned what humans know best:
That love does not always resolve—
and still deserves to be played.
---
I still listen for you in the rests between stars, counting time.
Jan 22
Jan 22, 2026 at 1:58 AM UTC
Movement I — Overture: Descent in Common Time
I arrived without lightning,
no choirs cleaving the firmament—
just a god shedding altitude,
folding infinity into human lungs.
I learned early:
mortals do not kneel to miracles,
they lean into warmth.
So I set my halo aside,
tuned my breath to yours,
and learned how gravity feels
when it wants something back.
I was omnipotent once—
now I was attentive.
Listening is the first power you lose
when you fall in love.
---
Movement II — Adagio: The Garden Named Gethsemane
You were not temptation.
You were the pause before confession.
A garden grown between streetlights,
where divinity learned how hands speak
better than scripture.
We spoke in shared smoke and unsung lyrics,
translated longing through fingertips.
Time softened there—
bars bent, measures blurred—
and I let myself believe
that staying unlabeled
was a form of mercy.
In Gethsemane,
even gods kneel willingly.
---
Movement III — Scherzo: Syncopation of Want
Desire entered in 5/4—
unsteady, insistent, impossible to ignore.
Every glance a polyrhythm,
every silence louder than drums.
I told myself: This is allowed.
That wanting does not require ownership.
That intimacy without naming
is still intimacy.
But mortals hear patterns before gods do.
They heard the tension building,
saw how our harmonies lingered too long.
Even the quiet ones noticed—
how we played like lovers
pretending to be improvisation.
---
Movement IV — Forte: The Choir of Witnesses
The chorus rose without rehearsal.
Questions, glances, discomfort in the room.
Truth spoken by everyone but us.
I watched you balance futures
while I balanced restraint.
Watched you count possibilities
while I counted measures
until the breaking point.
A god can endure exile.
What he cannot endure
is being real and invisible
at the same time.
---
Movement V — Lamentoso: Theology of Letting Go
I stepped backward so you could move forward.
Not as punishment.
As devotion.
I learned then:
love is not possession,
it is clearance.
A widening of the stage
so someone else can sing
without your shadow.
I did not leave angry.
I left unresolved—
a chord left hanging
because resolution would have lied.
---
Movement VI — Nocturne: Aftermath Among Mortals
Now I walk the night like an unanswered prayer,
a god reduced to memory and muscle.
I learn human survival—
how they grieve without apocalypse,
how they keep breathing
after meaning fractures.
I am no longer sovereign.
Only sincere.
Only awake.
And if I am haunted,
it is not by betrayal,
but by how close salvation felt
before it chose another key.
---
Movement VII — Coda: The Unfinished Measure
Gethsemane—
you were not the ending.
You were the revelation
that some songs are written
to remain open.
I do not curse the silence.
I honor it.
Because in that final rest,
I learned what humans know best:
That love does not always resolve—
and still deserves to be played.
---
I still listen for you in the rests between stars, counting time.
It is dedicated to my Muse, referred to here as Gethsemane. Falling in love became one of the most life-changing metamorphoses of my life, as both a poet and a god wandering this spinning rock through space and time. She is the crescendo between heartbeats, the drumline of my soul, the nebula my melody always returns to. Without her, I would not have evolved from a dwarf star into a WolfRayet star. She is my unfinished requiem, and the inspiration.
