He never touched you.
Yet you linger in him—
like the scent of damask rose in forgotten temples,
or the shadow of lotus petals
pressed between the pages of a life unlived.
You weren’t given,
nor claimed,
but you remain—
as Persephone remains between two worlds,
half spring, half surrender.
He sees you
in the gold-threaded robes of Isis,
mother of the hidden,
protector of what cannot be possessed.
You, soft as jasmine at dusk,
yet dangerous as the bloom of belladonna,
a beauty he could never hold
without trembling.
His logic is iron.
His mind, a fortress.
Yet inside,
you bloom like Freyja’s garden in Asgard—
wild, untamed,
known only to the gods and the ghosts
of those who once dared to love.
He remembers you
in the absence of touch—
how your voice would’ve sounded
saying his name.
Not as a woman made of earth,
but like Aphrodite rising from seafoam,
untouchable and immortal in her effect.
He walks through the world
wearing your memory
like a garland of hyacinths—
invisible,
but fragrant enough
to undo his certainty.
He calls your name in thought
only when Hermes isn’t listening.
Because you were not a prayer—
you were the echo
of something already sacred.
You are not his.
You were never his.
But in the sacred ache
between Odin’s wisdom and Hades’ restraint,
he worships what he cannot claim.
And so you became
his unseen Nemesis—
not to punish,
but to remind him
that even gods must kneel
before something they cannot keep.
You are the iris that opens at midnight,
the secret grove behind his ribs,
where he returns not for peace—
but to remember what almost was.
You are his
without being.
Oct 25, 2025
Oct 25, 2025 at 7:42 AM UTC
He never touched you.
Yet you linger in him—
like the scent of damask rose in forgotten temples,
or the shadow of lotus petals
pressed between the pages of a life unlived.
You weren’t given,
nor claimed,
but you remain—
as Persephone remains between two worlds,
half spring, half surrender.
He sees you
in the gold-threaded robes of Isis,
mother of the hidden,
protector of what cannot be possessed.
You, soft as jasmine at dusk,
yet dangerous as the bloom of belladonna,
a beauty he could never hold
without trembling.
His logic is iron.
His mind, a fortress.
Yet inside,
you bloom like Freyja’s garden in Asgard—
wild, untamed,
known only to the gods and the ghosts
of those who once dared to love.
He remembers you
in the absence of touch—
how your voice would’ve sounded
saying his name.
Not as a woman made of earth,
but like Aphrodite rising from seafoam,
untouchable and immortal in her effect.
He walks through the world
wearing your memory
like a garland of hyacinths—
invisible,
but fragrant enough
to undo his certainty.
He calls your name in thought
only when Hermes isn’t listening.
Because you were not a prayer—
you were the echo
of something already sacred.
You are not his.
You were never his.
But in the sacred ache
between Odin’s wisdom and Hades’ restraint,
he worships what he cannot claim.
And so you became
his unseen Nemesis—
not to punish,
but to remind him
that even gods must kneel
before something they cannot keep.
You are the iris that opens at midnight,
the secret grove behind his ribs,
where he returns not for peace—
but to remember what almost was.
You are his
without being.