She wears my hoodie
like a borrowed key signature—
my warmth translated into human time.
I watch from the back row of existence,
a god counting measures in 5/4,
waiting for a resolution that never arrives.
Gethsemane,
you hum life in a register I was never meant to sing.
Your smile bends gravity;
my eternity stumbles out of tempo.
I could end stars with a downbeat,
collapse heavens into silence—
yet I cannot persuade your heart
to choose my name.
So I linger—
content to be the echo you keep,
not the voice you follow.
Jan 22
Jan 22, 2026 at 12:20 AM UTC
She wears my hoodie
like a borrowed key signature—
my warmth translated into human time.
I watch from the back row of existence,
a god counting measures in 5/4,
waiting for a resolution that never arrives.
Gethsemane,
you hum life in a register I was never meant to sing.
Your smile bends gravity;
my eternity stumbles out of tempo.
I could end stars with a downbeat,
collapse heavens into silence—
yet I cannot persuade your heart
to choose my name.
So I linger—
content to be the echo you keep,
not the voice you follow.
This piece lives in the space where power fails. It is not about rejection, but reverence about loving without possession, watching warmth move through human time while eternity stands off-beat. InkWept does not linger out of weakness, but devotion: choosing to remain an echo rather than fracture the song by demanding to be heard.
