The Ruin Script

beneath the cathedral of dusk,
a red string bound our wrists together,
delicate as sacrament,
yet cruel as prophecy.

we carried it like devotion,
through candlelit nights and quiet mourning,
through prayers whispered too late
for the heavens to answer.

your “i love you” sounded holy,
like hymns grieving their own ruin.
mine arrived softer, quieter,
a confession entombed beneath silence.

but love tightened around us slowly,
thread by thread, wound by wound,
until even breathing near each other
felt like kneeling upon broken glass.

still, we refused to loosen our hands.
as though suffering itself
could sanctify the tragedy
of two souls unable to part.

your longing trembled like scripture,
while my fear wore the face of restraint.
between our wrists remained
that crimson covenant of ache.

and somewhere between midnight prayers
and devotion mistaken for endurance,
we finally understood:
love was never the blade.

it was our trembling hands around it.
our refusal to release what was already bleeding.
so we let go like mourners at burial,
yet neither soul truly left the other.

because even now, beyond the severed string,
our souls still kneel for each other in silence.
and perhaps in another lifetime, beneath kinder heavens,
our souls will remember how to hold each other gently.

author’s note:
— bled by @achilleusdeirdre
— 20th of may, year 2026
— open to criticism; all echoes welcome.
— lowercase intended for signature writing.