I kneel in rooms where prayers grow thin,
Where candle-smoke forgets the air,
And whisper not for us, nor then—
But for the man who might be there.
My heart is cracked, but not by love,
Not by the hunger to return.
It breaks for what you never were,
For bridges left to rot and burn.
Your body dims like winter light
Behind a cathedral of bone,
A bell that tolls each reckless night
For sins you’ve claimed but never owned.
I watch from pews I cannot leave,
Stained glass between your fall and me.
Survival taught me how to grieve
From sanctuaries of don’t you see.
I pray to gods with broken names,
To ash and mercy intertwined:
Unteach his hands their practiced harm,
Unknot the violence in his mind.
Let healing find him without me.
Let grace arrive without my cost.
I will not be the altar stone
Where better men go down and rot.
I mourn the man you could have been—
That quiet shape behind your eyes.
He haunts me more than what you are:
A gentler ghost that never tried.
So take this plea, whoever hears,
From someone spared, but not unscarred:
Save him from choices sharpening,
But keep me far from where they are.
Amen, I think. Or something close.
A word for hope that still keeps breath.
I do not love you. I lament
The life you buried—
Not your death.
Dec 13, 2025
Dec 13, 2025 at 12:23 PM UTC
I kneel in rooms where prayers grow thin,
Where candle-smoke forgets the air,
And whisper not for us, nor then—
But for the man who might be there.
My heart is cracked, but not by love,
Not by the hunger to return.
It breaks for what you never were,
For bridges left to rot and burn.
Your body dims like winter light
Behind a cathedral of bone,
A bell that tolls each reckless night
For sins you’ve claimed but never owned.
I watch from pews I cannot leave,
Stained glass between your fall and me.
Survival taught me how to grieve
From sanctuaries of don’t you see.
I pray to gods with broken names,
To ash and mercy intertwined:
Unteach his hands their practiced harm,
Unknot the violence in his mind.
Let healing find him without me.
Let grace arrive without my cost.
I will not be the altar stone
Where better men go down and rot.
I mourn the man you could have been—
That quiet shape behind your eyes.
He haunts me more than what you are:
A gentler ghost that never tried.
So take this plea, whoever hears,
From someone spared, but not unscarred:
Save him from choices sharpening,
But keep me far from where they are.
Amen, I think. Or something close.
A word for hope that still keeps breath.
I do not love you. I lament
The life you buried—
Not your death.