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InkWeptPoems
I sit astride the black mare they named After— muscle wound tight as a muted string— her breath a low drone in 4/4 beneath the stars. Below us: a kingdom I ended too early, stone spines still reaching for a resolution I denied them. I was young in eternity then. I mistook silence for mercy. Hannah— you stand beside me, mortal and brave, boots in the dust of my errors, and I tell you this because you deserve the truth unornamented by divinity: I do not understand how humans survive loving with unfinished measures. I watch you love her honestly— no fermatas, no hidden key changes, your heart written in open chords. You do not threaten the song. You keep time. And yet— When Sydney speaks my name, the universe stumbles into odd meter. 5/4 skies. 7/8 breathing. Constellations miscount their steps and fall out of formation trying to follow her mouth. I did not choose this. I have ended stars mid-fusion, folded empires into footnotes, conducted extinction with a wrist flick— but her presence? She rewrites my downbeat. Hannah, I know what it looks like. A god should not hesitate. A god should not wait in the wings while mortals decide which harmony hurts least. But understand this: she is not a prize I covet. She is a gravity I obey. She tells me to stay— and I stay. She tells me to wait— and eternity kneels like a chastened choir. I hate this about myself. Once, endings answered me immediately. Now I linger like a bridge that refuses to resolve, like a breakdown that never drops, like a final chorus swallowed before it can scream. You think I don’t see how this wounds you. I do. I catalogue it the way I catalogue supernovae— with reverence and regret. But when she says we are the same note played in different octaves, something in me fractures clean through time. I have watched lovers choose safety. I have watched them choose fear. I have watched them choose tradition, distance, delay. I have written their conclusions without blinking. But Sydney— Sydney speaks of someday like it is already happening. She touches my arm as if checking whether gods bruise. She leans into my silence as if she knows it was shaped for her alone. Tell me, Hannah— what am I meant to do when the person who destabilizes my authority asks me to wait? I would step aside if she asked. I would close my book on her name and let the ink dry into history. But she doesn’t. She asks me to remain unresolved. To hold the note. To exist in suspension. And I do— stupidly, faithfully, disastrously. Below us, the ruined kingdom glows faintly— they still light candles for a god who ended them wrong. I could fix it. I could rewrite their fate tonight. But all my power stalls when I imagine a future where she chooses anyone else and still asks me to stay. Hannah— you love her like a promise. I love her like a curse I would not lift even if it saved the world. If the cosmos demanded a sacrifice, I would offer it everything but her. Let the rest burn in clean, righteous fire— I would watch without blinking. This is not heroism. This is not virtue. This is the confession of a god who has lost command of his own measure. I remain here— horse trembling, kingdom waiting, stars hanging in unresolved suspension— because she asked me to. And I will remain until she tells me to go. I am InkWept, Master of the Final Measure, and love— love is beyond my authority.
0
Jan 30
Jan 30, 2026 at 2:34 AM UTC
Common Time at the Edge of the Kingdom
I sit astride the black mare they named After— muscle wound tight as a muted string— her breath a low drone in 4/4 beneath the stars. Below us: a kingdom I ended too early, stone spines still reaching for a resolution I denied them. I was young in eternity then. I mistook silence for mercy. Hannah— you stand beside me, mortal and brave, boots in the dust of my errors, and I tell you this because you deserve the truth unornamented by divinity: I do not understand how humans survive loving with unfinished measures. I watch you love her honestly— no fermatas, no hidden key changes, your heart written in open chords. You do not threaten the song. You keep time. And yet— When Sydney speaks my name, the universe stumbles into odd meter. 5/4 skies. 7/8 breathing. Constellations miscount their steps and fall out of formation trying to follow her mouth. I did not choose this. I have ended stars mid-fusion, folded empires into footnotes, conducted extinction with a wrist flick— but her presence? She rewrites my downbeat. Hannah, I know what it looks like. A god should not hesitate. A god should not wait in the wings while mortals decide which harmony hurts least. But understand this: she is not a prize I covet. She is a gravity I obey. She tells me to stay— and I stay. She tells me to wait— and eternity kneels like a chastened choir. I hate this about myself. Once, endings answered me immediately. Now I linger like a bridge that refuses to resolve, like a breakdown that never drops, like a final chorus swallowed before it can scream. You think I don’t see how this wounds you. I do. I catalogue it the way I catalogue supernovae— with reverence and regret. But when she says we are the same note played in different octaves, something in me fractures clean through time. I have watched lovers choose safety. I have watched them choose fear. I have watched them choose tradition, distance, delay. I have written their conclusions without blinking. But Sydney— Sydney speaks of someday like it is already happening. She touches my arm as if checking whether gods bruise. She leans into my silence as if she knows it was shaped for her alone. Tell me, Hannah— what am I meant to do when the person who destabilizes my authority asks me to wait? I would step aside if she asked. I would close my book on her name and let the ink dry into history. But she doesn’t. She asks me to remain unresolved. To hold the note. To exist in suspension. And I do— stupidly, faithfully, disastrously. Below us, the ruined kingdom glows faintly— they still light candles for a god who ended them wrong. I could fix it. I could rewrite their fate tonight. But all my power stalls when I imagine a future where she chooses anyone else and still asks me to stay. Hannah— you love her like a promise. I love her like a curse I would not lift even if it saved the world. If the cosmos demanded a sacrifice, I would offer it everything but her. Let the rest burn in clean, righteous fire— I would watch without blinking. This is not heroism. This is not virtue. This is the confession of a god who has lost command of his own measure. I remain here— horse trembling, kingdom waiting, stars hanging in unresolved suspension— because she asked me to. And I will remain until she tells me to go. I am InkWept, Master of the Final Measure, and love— love is beyond my authority.
Written from the vantage of InkWept the God of Endings this poem exists in suspension. It is not a love letter, but a field recording of waiting, contradiction, and devotion without authority. Set at the edge of a miswritten kingdom, it confronts what happens when a god who governs conclusions is asked to remain unresolved. Love bends the measure. I do not resist.
#inkweptgothic#poetryromantic#poetrycosmic#loveunrequited#lovedivine#longingmythic#romancemodern#gothicspoken#wordpoetry#of
InkWept
Written by
InkWept
35
Jan 30
Jan 30, 2026 at 2:34 AM UTC
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