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I do not ask for worship— only a gaze that does not fracture when the tempo shifts into darkness. See me— not the softened silhouette, not the prettified refrain— but the dissonance, the echo, the unresolved chord dragged through a collapsing 7/8 sky. I am not gentle light. I am the blackened overture— a cathedral of dead stars humming in minor keys, a god of endings learning breath among mortals who call entropy devotion. And still— I would offer every ruin I conduct, every fractured movement, every cosmic decay— to the one who does not rewrite my score, but stands within the distortion, unafraid of the feedback, as if even my horrors were holy. Love me—not despite— but because I am exactly this: the final measure that never resolves, the silence after the orchestra devours itself, the infinite collapse that still—somehow— longs to be heard.
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Mar 29
Mar 29, 2026 at 2:02 AM UTC
InkWept
A Love That Does Not Flinch
I do not ask for worship— only a gaze that does not fracture when the tempo shifts into darkness. See me— not the softened silhouette, not the prettified refrain— but the dissonance, the echo, the unresolved chord dragged through a collapsing 7/8 sky. I am not gentle light. I am the blackened overture— a cathedral of dead stars humming in minor keys, a god of endings learning breath among mortals who call entropy devotion. And still— I would offer every ruin I conduct, every fractured movement, every cosmic decay— to the one who does not rewrite my score, but stands within the distortion, unafraid of the feedback, as if even my horrors were holy. Love me—not despite— but because I am exactly this: the final measure that never resolves, the silence after the orchestra devours itself, the infinite collapse that still—somehow— longs to be heard.
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