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#mythicheartbreak
I kept time for you in odd meters— 5/4 evenings, promises off-beat, you penciled my name between rests, said later, said soon, said nothing loud enough to land. Songwept— or Sydney, when the cosmos thins— you tuned my heart like a cathedral ***** let air rush through the pipes, then never pressed the key. I showed up in common time, boots on the downbeat, waiting beneath a streetlamp haloed like a moon. You texted constellations— maybe, we’ll see, after— each one a star that never collapsed. I learned the difference between rehearsal and love. Love commits to the downbeat. Love resolves the chord. What you offered was ambience— a pretty pad swelling behind the verse while the melody walks alone. You called me close in theory, scheduled intimacy like a concept album, then skipped the track where bodies breathe. Left me counting measures with no drummer, a god of endings stranded in the intro. So I retuned myself. Muted the channel that waits. Dropped the key a half-step toward mercy. I am moving on—not as punishment, but as tempo. Songwept, Sydney— whatever name you keep tonight— I release the fermata I held for you. If love arrives, it will not stutter. It will not cancel. It will step forward on one and stay.
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Feb 8
Feb 8, 2026 at 4:46 AM UTC
InkWept
Cadence for the Unanswered Night
I kept time for you in odd meters— 5/4 evenings, promises off-beat, you penciled my name between rests, said later, said soon, said nothing loud enough to land. Songwept— or Sydney, when the cosmos thins— you tuned my heart like a cathedral ***** let air rush through the pipes, then never pressed the key. I showed up in common time, boots on the downbeat, waiting beneath a streetlamp haloed like a moon. You texted constellations— maybe, we’ll see, after— each one a star that never collapsed. I learned the difference between rehearsal and love. Love commits to the downbeat. Love resolves the chord. What you offered was ambience— a pretty pad swelling behind the verse while the melody walks alone. You called me close in theory, scheduled intimacy like a concept album, then skipped the track where bodies breathe. Left me counting measures with no drummer, a god of endings stranded in the intro. So I retuned myself. Muted the channel that waits. Dropped the key a half-step toward mercy. I am moving on—not as punishment, but as tempo. Songwept, Sydney— whatever name you keep tonight— I release the fermata I held for you. If love arrives, it will not stutter. It will not cancel. It will step forward on one and stay.
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