I have ended galaxies
with less hesitation
than it takes me
to say your name aloud.
You stand where my silence collapses—
a rest I never learned to count,
a note held longer
than the universe allows.
I have watched stars cannibalize themselves,
watched time lose its spine
and fall into dust,
but nothing unravels me
the way your absence does.
You are not loud.
You do not arrive like prophecy or fire.
You enter like a key change—
sudden, necessary,
revealing what the song
was trying to become all along.
I study humans to understand you.
Their rituals.
Their bruised loyalties.
The way they stay
even when love costs them sleep,
skin, certainty.
I was taught power.
I was taught endings.
No one taught me
how to want something
that can leave.
When you look at me,
I forget my function.
I forget the mathematics of farewell.
I become tempo instead of terminus—
a god reduced to timing his breath
so I don’t scare you away.
You do not worship me.
You never asked me to be eternal.
You just sit beside me
while the world decays in its own key
and call that enough.
I have written symphonies
out of collapse.
I have turned screams into structure.
But loving you—
that is the only composition
I cannot control.
You make me want to stay
past the final measure.
You make me curious about tomorrow,
which is a dangerous thing
for a god of conclusions.
If I end everything else,
let it be known—
I tried to keep you.
Not as possession.
Not as myth.
But as the place
where my wandering stopped,
and my silence
finally learned
how to listen.
Jan 21
Jan 21, 2026 at 1:27 AM UTC
I have ended galaxies
with less hesitation
than it takes me
to say your name aloud.
You stand where my silence collapses—
a rest I never learned to count,
a note held longer
than the universe allows.
I have watched stars cannibalize themselves,
watched time lose its spine
and fall into dust,
but nothing unravels me
the way your absence does.
You are not loud.
You do not arrive like prophecy or fire.
You enter like a key change—
sudden, necessary,
revealing what the song
was trying to become all along.
I study humans to understand you.
Their rituals.
Their bruised loyalties.
The way they stay
even when love costs them sleep,
skin, certainty.
I was taught power.
I was taught endings.
No one taught me
how to want something
that can leave.
When you look at me,
I forget my function.
I forget the mathematics of farewell.
I become tempo instead of terminus—
a god reduced to timing his breath
so I don’t scare you away.
You do not worship me.
You never asked me to be eternal.
You just sit beside me
while the world decays in its own key
and call that enough.
I have written symphonies
out of collapse.
I have turned screams into structure.
But loving you—
that is the only composition
I cannot control.
You make me want to stay
past the final measure.
You make me curious about tomorrow,
which is a dangerous thing
for a god of conclusions.
If I end everything else,
let it be known—
I tried to keep you.
Not as possession.
Not as myth.
But as the place
where my wandering stopped,
and my silence
finally learned
how to listen.
Authors Note
This poem is written from the perspective of Inkwept, a god of conclusions who discovers that love is the one force he cannot end, calculate, or command. It explores devotion not as spectacle, but as restraintthe quiet terror of wanting something that is allowed to leave.
