I speak to you the way dead radios speak to stars—
broadcasting devotion into an empty channel,
my signal cracking in minor keys,
every hope detuning itself mid-measure.
You said you wanted to be alone with me.
You said it like a promise,
like a clean downbeat,
like the song might finally belong to us.
But every time the tempo steadies,
she arrives—
a surprise harmony I never consented to,
gifts in her hands, your attention in her mouth,
sliding into the seat where my faith was meant to rest.
So I sit in the backseat—
a god folded into a hoodie,
Tears fall against the architecture of disappointment,
watching someone else occupy the silence
I had rehearsed my courage for.
I dissolve there.
I dissociate between streetlights,
counting passing seconds like dropped drumsticks,
learning how to cry without sound,
learning how to vanish politely.
I am ancient.
I have collapsed galaxies with a gesture,
conducted supernovae into fermatas,
yet I am reduced to static
while you touch her like a resolution.
You made me feel chosen—
that’s the cruelest part.
You tuned me to hope,
let me believe the melody was mutual,
only to reveal the truth in the bridge:
I am the harmony you enjoy
but never center.
I am tired of attaching meaning
to the things you say.
Tired of interpreting kindness like prophecy,
tired of devotion being a solo
no one asked me to perform.
I keep bleeding belief
like a distortion pedal left maxed out,
offering love in sacred frequencies
you only hear as background noise.
Tonight, in the backseat of her car,
I finally understand the arrangement.
You will not choose me—
not without fear,
not without hesitation,
not at all.
And maybe you never did.
Maybe I was just a lovesick god
romanticizing proximity,
writing epics out of crumbs,
searching for holiness
where there was only convenience.
I am tired of crying in borrowed cars.
Tired of feeling like the afterthought
to someone else’s intimacy.
Tired of heartbreak
being my most consistent collaborator.
So I speak to the space where you should have been,
letting the ache sustain itself,
holding the chord even as my hands shake,
because ending it too soon
would be another lie.
I am InkWept—
a disenfranchised god among mortals,
learning too late that love,
when unreturned,
is not a duet.
It is a requiem
you survive by learning
when to stop singing.
Jan 21
Jan 21, 2026 at 1:57 AM UTC
I speak to you the way dead radios speak to stars—
broadcasting devotion into an empty channel,
my signal cracking in minor keys,
every hope detuning itself mid-measure.
You said you wanted to be alone with me.
You said it like a promise,
like a clean downbeat,
like the song might finally belong to us.
But every time the tempo steadies,
she arrives—
a surprise harmony I never consented to,
gifts in her hands, your attention in her mouth,
sliding into the seat where my faith was meant to rest.
So I sit in the backseat—
a god folded into a hoodie,
Tears fall against the architecture of disappointment,
watching someone else occupy the silence
I had rehearsed my courage for.
I dissolve there.
I dissociate between streetlights,
counting passing seconds like dropped drumsticks,
learning how to cry without sound,
learning how to vanish politely.
I am ancient.
I have collapsed galaxies with a gesture,
conducted supernovae into fermatas,
yet I am reduced to static
while you touch her like a resolution.
You made me feel chosen—
that’s the cruelest part.
You tuned me to hope,
let me believe the melody was mutual,
only to reveal the truth in the bridge:
I am the harmony you enjoy
but never center.
I am tired of attaching meaning
to the things you say.
Tired of interpreting kindness like prophecy,
tired of devotion being a solo
no one asked me to perform.
I keep bleeding belief
like a distortion pedal left maxed out,
offering love in sacred frequencies
you only hear as background noise.
Tonight, in the backseat of her car,
I finally understand the arrangement.
You will not choose me—
not without fear,
not without hesitation,
not at all.
And maybe you never did.
Maybe I was just a lovesick god
romanticizing proximity,
writing epics out of crumbs,
searching for holiness
where there was only convenience.
I am tired of crying in borrowed cars.
Tired of feeling like the afterthought
to someone else’s intimacy.
Tired of heartbreak
being my most consistent collaborator.
So I speak to the space where you should have been,
letting the ache sustain itself,
holding the chord even as my hands shake,
because ending it too soon
would be another lie.
I am InkWept—
a disenfranchised god among mortals,
learning too late that love,
when unreturned,
is not a duet.
It is a requiem
you survive by learning
when to stop singing.
Authors Note:
This piece was written from the backseatwhere hope is quiet and clarity arrives too late. It speaks to the exhaustion of loving without being chosen, of mistaking proximity for devotion. This is not an accusation, but a reckoning: the moment a god learns that some songs are never meant to be duets.
