We were worshipers
in a temple built of unfinished sentences,
kneeling before a promise that never learned to stand.
You were always almost mine…
the preacher of maybe,
the prophet of nearly,
blessing me with half-truths and folded prayers.
Your devotion lived in vague verses,
in holy words spoken without witness,
in hymns that praised a love you never proved.
You loved me in theory.
I loved you in faith.
You preached of destiny,
but tithed nothing of yourself…
only fragments,
only silence,
only the echo of what could have been.
We spent years in that sacred limbo,
lighting candles to the altar of eventual,
fasting from honesty,
feasting on speculation.
I memorized your contradictions
like scripture,
held your hesitation like rosary beads,
waiting for a confession
that never came.
And now…
I see it clearly.
You were a religion of almost.
A holy book missing its ending.
A church with stained glass windows
and no foundation beneath.
I left your sanctuary barefoot…
carrying my heart like contraband,
shaking the dust of your indecision from my feet.
Now I worship where love is living,
not theorized.
Where vows are whole,
and eyes do not look away.
Where faith is not a gamble…
but a garden
that grows.
And if you ever wonder
why I stopped praying at your door,
It’s because I finally learned.
God is not found in the temples of “almost.”
Only ghosts are.
Nov 15, 2025
Nov 15, 2025 at 10:57 PM UTC
We were worshipers
in a temple built of unfinished sentences,
kneeling before a promise that never learned to stand.
You were always almost mine…
the preacher of maybe,
the prophet of nearly,
blessing me with half-truths and folded prayers.
Your devotion lived in vague verses,
in holy words spoken without witness,
in hymns that praised a love you never proved.
You loved me in theory.
I loved you in faith.
You preached of destiny,
but tithed nothing of yourself…
only fragments,
only silence,
only the echo of what could have been.
We spent years in that sacred limbo,
lighting candles to the altar of eventual,
fasting from honesty,
feasting on speculation.
I memorized your contradictions
like scripture,
held your hesitation like rosary beads,
waiting for a confession
that never came.
And now…
I see it clearly.
You were a religion of almost.
A holy book missing its ending.
A church with stained glass windows
and no foundation beneath.
I left your sanctuary barefoot…
carrying my heart like contraband,
shaking the dust of your indecision from my feet.
Now I worship where love is living,
not theorized.
Where vows are whole,
and eyes do not look away.
Where faith is not a gamble…
but a garden
that grows.
And if you ever wonder
why I stopped praying at your door,
It’s because I finally learned.
God is not found in the temples of “almost.”
Only ghosts are.