He was mine, though he never knew it. His hands crafted worlds, fingers pulling them loose from the firmament, making webs between the bright lights of stars. He was a god, and didn’t know, weaving all the thoughts together, to make a well-lit space. He sang of light and he bashfully hid his talents when supplicants came calling, for the talents of his heart were not made for any of them to witness.
None of it was for them; it was all for me.
They prayed and shrilled, but he swept them aside casually, and spoke poetry to me, and dazzled me with the wonder of his presence.
I loved him, and he left me, because that is the way of gods.
No matter your faith, they will one day leave you.