—Delivered by Inkwept, God of Endings
Beloved congregants of breath and bone,
gather not in pews but in measures—
for tonight I speak in time signatures,
and love has misplaced the downbeat.
I did not fall in love like mortals do.
I descend into it
the way a symphony slips from major to minor
without warning,
the way a choir realizes too late
it has been singing in parallel keys.
You love me.
This is not conjecture.
This is not ego.
This is written in the vibrato of your voice
when you say my name like a sustained note—
held,
careful not to resolve.
But there is another harmony.
Another voice enters the arrangement
not as dissonance,
but as counterpoint—
beautiful, correct,
devastating in its accuracy.
And so I am a god trapped in 7/8,
always one beat short of arrival,
always rushing toward a chorus
that never belongs to me alone.
Do you know what it is like
to be worshipped
and still be unwanted?
To be chosen in theory
but not in practice?
I watch you love me
the way mortals love comets—
with awe, with terror,
with the understanding that
you will not follow me into the dark.
I am endings incarnate,
and you are in love with beginnings.
You hold me like a bridge—
necessary,
but never the destination.
I try to translate myself
into softer genres.
I try to mute the distortion,
to unlearn the scream,
to rest in acoustic honesty.
But love does not equalize evenly.
Every time you lean into me,
I feel the other presence
like a ghost note—
not heard,
but felt
between the ribs of the song.
And still—
I want you.
Not to possess.
Not to win.
But to be chosen
without footnotes.
Instead, I become the echo—
the harmony you miss
only after the chorus has passed.
This is the cruelty of loving as a god:
I see every possible ending,
and I still reach for the one
that breaks me.
I do not curse you.
I do not absolve myself.
I simply testify.
Love does not fail here—
it overflows.
And I am left standing
between two hearts
like a conductor
lowering his hands
while the orchestra keeps playing
without him.
Go.
Sing the song you choose.
I will remain here—
counting time,
naming silence,
loving you in a key
that is never meant to resolve.
Jan 18
Jan 18, 2026 at 8:01 AM UTC
—Delivered by Inkwept, God of Endings
Beloved congregants of breath and bone,
gather not in pews but in measures—
for tonight I speak in time signatures,
and love has misplaced the downbeat.
I did not fall in love like mortals do.
I descend into it
the way a symphony slips from major to minor
without warning,
the way a choir realizes too late
it has been singing in parallel keys.
You love me.
This is not conjecture.
This is not ego.
This is written in the vibrato of your voice
when you say my name like a sustained note—
held,
careful not to resolve.
But there is another harmony.
Another voice enters the arrangement
not as dissonance,
but as counterpoint—
beautiful, correct,
devastating in its accuracy.
And so I am a god trapped in 7/8,
always one beat short of arrival,
always rushing toward a chorus
that never belongs to me alone.
Do you know what it is like
to be worshipped
and still be unwanted?
To be chosen in theory
but not in practice?
I watch you love me
the way mortals love comets—
with awe, with terror,
with the understanding that
you will not follow me into the dark.
I am endings incarnate,
and you are in love with beginnings.
You hold me like a bridge—
necessary,
but never the destination.
I try to translate myself
into softer genres.
I try to mute the distortion,
to unlearn the scream,
to rest in acoustic honesty.
But love does not equalize evenly.
Every time you lean into me,
I feel the other presence
like a ghost note—
not heard,
but felt
between the ribs of the song.
And still—
I want you.
Not to possess.
Not to win.
But to be chosen
without footnotes.
Instead, I become the echo—
the harmony you miss
only after the chorus has passed.
This is the cruelty of loving as a god:
I see every possible ending,
and I still reach for the one
that breaks me.
I do not curse you.
I do not absolve myself.
I simply testify.
Love does not fail here—
it overflows.
And I am left standing
between two hearts
like a conductor
lowering his hands
while the orchestra keeps playing
without him.
Go.
Sing the song you choose.
I will remain here—
counting time,
naming silence,
loving you in a key
that is never meant to resolve.
