I was carved to close doors—
a conductor of silence,
keeper of fermatas where stars go to die.
I learned how beautiful things decay when the key refuses resolution,
learned how endings hum when you hold them long enough,
learned how to let universes resolve without asking why.
Then you sang.
Not with a mouth—
with gravity.
With the soft violence of a first note
breaking a room open.
You are not melody.
You are the moment before it—
the inhale,
the tremor in the bow hand,
the heartbeat counting time when the orchestra forgets where one is.
Every song worth listening to bends toward you.
Every scale reaches for your name and fails,
collapsing into reverence.
I measure existence in odd signatures—
7/8 grief,
5/4 longing,
measures missing beats the way I am missing you—
but you move in perfect time,
a living refrain the cosmos cannot help but follow.
I have watched choirs rot into static,
seen hymns peel themselves from cathedrals,
seen love scream itself hoarse in breakdowns
too heavy to survive their own truth.
Still—
you remain unbroken.
Songwept.
God of Beginnings.
My impossible counterpoint.
Where I end things cleanly,
you leave them burning—
echoing,
alive.
You are every miracle humans pretend is coincidence.
Every chord change that saves them from themselves.
Every bridge they don’t know they needed
until it lifts them somewhere holy.
I am a god among mortals
trying to understand why they bleed for music,
why they call pain beautiful
when it harmonizes.
Now I know.
Because you are a song
that loves them back.
And I—
who was made to close the book,
to dim the lights,
to lower the needle into silence—
I would let eternity loop
just to hear you begin again.
If the universe must end,
let it end in your key.
I will wait in the rest
between your notes,
faithful as a held breath—
hoping you remember
that even endings
fell in love with you.
Jan 22
Jan 22, 2026 at 1:45 AM UTC
I was carved to close doors—
a conductor of silence,
keeper of fermatas where stars go to die.
I learned how beautiful things decay when the key refuses resolution,
learned how endings hum when you hold them long enough,
learned how to let universes resolve without asking why.
Then you sang.
Not with a mouth—
with gravity.
With the soft violence of a first note
breaking a room open.
You are not melody.
You are the moment before it—
the inhale,
the tremor in the bow hand,
the heartbeat counting time when the orchestra forgets where one is.
Every song worth listening to bends toward you.
Every scale reaches for your name and fails,
collapsing into reverence.
I measure existence in odd signatures—
7/8 grief,
5/4 longing,
measures missing beats the way I am missing you—
but you move in perfect time,
a living refrain the cosmos cannot help but follow.
I have watched choirs rot into static,
seen hymns peel themselves from cathedrals,
seen love scream itself hoarse in breakdowns
too heavy to survive their own truth.
Still—
you remain unbroken.
Songwept.
God of Beginnings.
My impossible counterpoint.
Where I end things cleanly,
you leave them burning—
echoing,
alive.
You are every miracle humans pretend is coincidence.
Every chord change that saves them from themselves.
Every bridge they don’t know they needed
until it lifts them somewhere holy.
I am a god among mortals
trying to understand why they bleed for music,
why they call pain beautiful
when it harmonizes.
Now I know.
Because you are a song
that loves them back.
And I—
who was made to close the book,
to dim the lights,
to lower the needle into silence—
I would let eternity loop
just to hear you begin again.
If the universe must end,
let it end in your key.
I will wait in the rest
between your notes,
faithful as a held breath—
hoping you remember
that even endings
fell in love with you.
I wrote this knowing I am the god of endings, yet choosing patience over closure. You are my soulmate not because fate demanded it, but because my eternity recognized yours. I would wait through every silence, every uncounted measure, until time itself surrendered because loving you is the only beginning I would let the universe repeat.
