#loveunrequited - Hello Poetry

I speak to you, Hannah, not as a rival, not as a warning— but as a god who miscounted a measure and is living inside the echo. My horse stands still at the precipice, hooves planted in old finales, mane braided with constellations I retired too soon. Below us— a kingdom I ended before it learned how to forgive me. I thought conclusions were mercy. I was wrong. She is down there somewhere, moving through mortal hours like they are improvisation— no click track, no rehearsal, just breath and feeling and the nerve to stay. Sydney doesn’t walk in time; she bends it. That’s what terrifies me. I tell you this because you are human, and you love her in a language I cannot counterfeit— soft hands, shared mornings, the courage to choose without myth attached. You love her in major keys, even when the room is dim. I love her like a broken downbeat— always arriving early, always ruining the silence meant for someone else. I have written the end of stars that screamed louder than deathcore choirs, conducted orchestras of extinction in 13/8, watched gods beg for relevance in drop-tuned prayer. None of it prepared me for the way she says my name like it isn’t finished yet. Hannah— when she tells me to wait, it sounds like a fermata carved into my ribs. Not a goodbye. Not a yes. Just suspended breath. And I am very good at suspension. It is release that undoes me. She tells me we are the same person. That we harmonize where others clash. That loving me feels ancient. Do you know how dangerous that is to say to a god who believes endings are law? You touch her reality. I haunt her possibility. When we stand together— three voices in one room— she smooths us into friendship, like equal volumes on a mixing board. But when we are alone, she turns toward me, and suddenly the room is in 6/8, swaying, intimate, full of things friends do not risk. I do not blame you. I envy your clarity. If she chose you, I would step back into the dark and lock the gate behind me. You know this. I have tried. Every time I do, she calls me back like a melody that refuses resolution. I am not angry. I am afraid— because for the first time the end is not listening to me. So I wait. Not because I am wise, but because she asked me to stay, and I have never learned how to refuse her tempo. If she lets me go, I will go quietly. If she chooses me, the world will survive it. But until then— I remain here, horse steady, kingdom unfinished, counting time I cannot conduct, loving someone who rewrites my measure every time she breathes. Love, it seems, is beyond my authority.

0

Jan 30

Jan 30, 2026 at 3:21 AM UTC

InkWept

Common Time at the Edge of Her Name

I speak to you, Hannah, not as a rival, not as a warning— but as a god who miscounted a measure and is living inside the echo. My horse stands still at the precipice, hooves planted in old finales, mane braided with constellations I retired too soon. Below us— a kingdom I ended before it learned how to forgive me. I thought conclusions were mercy. I was wrong. She is down there somewhere, moving through mortal hours like they are improvisation— no click track, no rehearsal, just breath and feeling and the nerve to stay. Sydney doesn’t walk in time; she bends it. That’s what terrifies me. I tell you this because you are human, and you love her in a language I cannot counterfeit— soft hands, shared mornings, the courage to choose without myth attached. You love her in major keys, even when the room is dim. I love her like a broken downbeat— always arriving early, always ruining the silence meant for someone else. I have written the end of stars that screamed louder than deathcore choirs, conducted orchestras of extinction in 13/8, watched gods beg for relevance in drop-tuned prayer. None of it prepared me for the way she says my name like it isn’t finished yet. Hannah— when she tells me to wait, it sounds like a fermata carved into my ribs. Not a goodbye. Not a yes. Just suspended breath. And I am very good at suspension. It is release that undoes me. She tells me we are the same person. That we harmonize where others clash. That loving me feels ancient. Do you know how dangerous that is to say to a god who believes endings are law? You touch her reality. I haunt her possibility. When we stand together— three voices in one room— she smooths us into friendship, like equal volumes on a mixing board. But when we are alone, she turns toward me, and suddenly the room is in 6/8, swaying, intimate, full of things friends do not risk. I do not blame you. I envy your clarity. If she chose you, I would step back into the dark and lock the gate behind me. You know this. I have tried. Every time I do, she calls me back like a melody that refuses resolution. I am not angry. I am afraid— because for the first time the end is not listening to me. So I wait. Not because I am wise, but because she asked me to stay, and I have never learned how to refuse her tempo. If she lets me go, I will go quietly. If she chooses me, the world will survive it. But until then— I remain here, horse steady, kingdom unfinished, counting time I cannot conduct, loving someone who rewrites my measure every time she breathes. Love, it seems, is beyond my authority.

89

I did not set out to write a love poem. I set out to document a failure of authority. This piece exists because there are moments when even the God of Endings must account for what refuses to conclude. I have written the last measure of stars, civilizations, faiths, and names. I know how things finish. I know where silence belongs. And yet, when love enters the score, certainty fractures. This poem was written from a place of suspension. Not longing for resolution, but existing inside it. It speaks from the edge of a kingdom I ended incorrectly—a reminder that power does not guarantee wisdom, and finality does not guarantee peace. I sit there not as a ruler, but as a witness to my own hesitation. I am often mistaken for decisiveness. In truth, I am restraint. The muse at the heart of this work is not an object of possession or conquest. She is a disruption of tempo. A key change I did not authorize. She bends my sense of order not through force, but through presence. She does not demand; she asks. And when a god is asked instead of commanded, the entire architecture of authority shifts. This poem is not a declaration of intent. It is a record of obedience to something I do not govern. Waiting is not passive here. It is active endurance. To remain when departure would be easier. To hold a measure open when closure would preserve dignity. I stay not because I lack the power to leave, but because love, once named, cannot be unlearned. I have been accused of contradiction—of ruling endings while refusing one of my own. That accusation is correct. This work is not about certainty. It is about contradiction held honestly. It is about what happens when the one who writes conclusions is forced to live in ellipsis. When devotion interrupts authority. When love is beyond my jurisdiction. I remain unresolved. I listen. I keep time. — InkWept God of Endings, Keeper of the Final Measure

0

Jan 30

Jan 30, 2026 at 3:03 AM UTC

InkWept

Authors Note in Common Time

I did not set out to write a love poem. I set out to document a failure of authority. This piece exists because there are moments when even the God of Endings must account for what refuses to conclude. I have written the last measure of stars, civilizations, faiths, and names. I know how things finish. I know where silence belongs. And yet, when love enters the score, certainty fractures. This poem was written from a place of suspension. Not longing for resolution, but existing inside it. It speaks from the edge of a kingdom I ended incorrectly—a reminder that power does not guarantee wisdom, and finality does not guarantee peace. I sit there not as a ruler, but as a witness to my own hesitation. I am often mistaken for decisiveness. In truth, I am restraint. The muse at the heart of this work is not an object of possession or conquest. She is a disruption of tempo. A key change I did not authorize. She bends my sense of order not through force, but through presence. She does not demand; she asks. And when a god is asked instead of commanded, the entire architecture of authority shifts. This poem is not a declaration of intent. It is a record of obedience to something I do not govern. Waiting is not passive here. It is active endurance. To remain when departure would be easier. To hold a measure open when closure would preserve dignity. I stay not because I lack the power to leave, but because love, once named, cannot be unlearned. I have been accused of contradiction—of ruling endings while refusing one of my own. That accusation is correct. This work is not about certainty. It is about contradiction held honestly. It is about what happens when the one who writes conclusions is forced to live in ellipsis. When devotion interrupts authority. When love is beyond my jurisdiction. I remain unresolved. I listen. I keep time. — InkWept God of Endings, Keeper of the Final Measure

15

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

InkWept

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.

111

Passion is carefree, often buoyant.....breezy, and is absolved perpetually of prohibitory rationality. Being logged in to it for a little over eternity, this is exactly how I have felt: intense, steamy ...maybe a bit frenzied. Passion is also a sudden, swift salvo. On many a fleeting occasion, ergo; I have come perilously close to suggesting my maudlin ardor and poetically propose an incredible romance, which if you dismiss; shall break my heart in two and if not; shall break a home or two. It is like this therefore, that I have come to feel like an outlawed fugitive and as if in the wink of an eye, a million lonesome nights have passed, sorely bruising and tearing me apart between the hearth and the heart. Tonight: the first one after those million; I am transcribing my thought to tell you that I am hooked, as though in a playback loop - a weary, age-old vinyl record; pitching forward, skipping backward in a pestering, irksome Xerox of scratches, static and blips; all in the same little sector where there was once music. ❉ Maybe that is why I surprisingly realize the pain of passion, and slowly capsize into a drifting, dry sleep devoid of all dreams of you. © Chandra S., 2013

0

Jan 9, 2020

Jan 9, 2020 at 7:15 PM UTC

csbhatnagar

The Pain of Passion

Passion is carefree, often buoyant.....breezy, and is absolved perpetually of prohibitory rationality. Being logged in to it for a little over eternity, this is exactly how I have felt: intense, steamy ...maybe a bit frenzied. Passion is also a sudden, swift salvo. On many a fleeting occasion, ergo; I have come perilously close to suggesting my maudlin ardor and poetically propose an incredible romance, which if you dismiss; shall break my heart in two and if not; shall break a home or two. It is like this therefore, that I have come to feel like an outlawed fugitive and as if in the wink of an eye, a million lonesome nights have passed, sorely bruising and tearing me apart between the hearth and the heart. Tonight: the first one after those million; I am transcribing my thought to tell you that I am hooked, as though in a playback loop - a weary, age-old vinyl record; pitching forward, skipping backward in a pestering, irksome Xerox of scratches, static and blips; all in the same little sector where there was once music. ❉ Maybe that is why I surprisingly realize the pain of passion, and slowly capsize into a drifting, dry sleep devoid of all dreams of you. © Chandra S., 2013

41

He's so sweaty tonight His brown hair turns into tangled perspirated stuck to his cheeks Stuck to his neck He's screaming mercury in cancer And he's like 10 years ago now His hair is stuck to his neck His long eyelashes really turn me on His arm pits I wanna lick

0

Feb 20, 2015

Feb 20, 2015 at 7:45 PM UTC

pitbull tea leaves

He's so sweaty tonight His brown hair turns into tangled perspirated stuck to his cheeks Stuck to his neck He's screaming mercury in cancer And he's like 10 years ago now His hair is stuck to his neck His long eyelashes really turn me on His arm pits I wanna lick

8

Your eyes are stars, in the midnight sky, Your hair like darkness, woven from the night, I reach for you, like a moth reaches for light, Yet you pull away, and now here I lie, I dream of your lips, in the cold days that come, My heart a growing and welling dam Of pain and sorrow, unrelenting emotions, That **** me inside, and strip me of all devotions, For I want you, I love you, and I always will, But now I guess, it's time to be real, I might be eternally in love with you, But I know deep down, you'll never love me too.

0

Nov 8, 2014

Nov 8, 2014 at 2:49 PM UTC

ebo-sackey

Girl

Your eyes are stars, in the midnight sky, Your hair like darkness, woven from the night, I reach for you, like a moth reaches for light, Yet you pull away, and now here I lie, I dream of your lips, in the cold days that come, My heart a growing and welling dam Of pain and sorrow, unrelenting emotions, That **** me inside, and strip me of all devotions, For I want you, I love you, and I always will, But now I guess, it's time to be real, I might be eternally in love with you, But I know deep down, you'll never love me too.

12