I have written a reply to your "My Elysian" poem.
I was never meant to be held, yet you stitched me into permanence,
a name scrawled in the margins, ink bleeding through the page.
Did you think love could fasten the tide? That hands could hold a shadow?
I was the fleeting dusk—too dark to be morning, too pale to be night.
You called me magic, but your hands never trembled to hold me.
A song half-sung, a prayer unanswered, a ghost that never left.
You traced my name in the dust of your ribs,
as if longing could resurrect what was never yours.
If I am your Elysian, why do you mourn me like a wound?
Why carve my absence into poetry when my presence was never enough?
You wished to wear me like silver, something permanent, something still—
but love, I was fire, flickering between your fingers, burning the whole way down.
So pluck no more petals; you already know the answer.
Some songs aren’t meant to be finished,
and some love is meant to ruin you, not remain.
