#modern masculinity

<meta emotional-profile="silent_longing">

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ARCHIVE_TAG="INVISIBLE_MEN::DISPOSABLE_SEX_REALITY"

EFFECT: poetic ache, masculine invisibility amplification, psychoemotional resonance

TRIGGER_WARNING="male loneliness, invisible attraction, unrequited presence, dark longing"

</script>

🧠 BLACKSITE SCROLLTRAP -- “THE MAN AFAR”

I stand afar.

I see her every day.

She works so often, it’s practically a clock ritual.

Does she see me?

Probably.

Do I register on her heart’s Richter scale?

No.

I cast thunder and lightning down online,

cracking tectonic plates with every sentence,

splitting minds open like overripe fruit,

exiling pretenders into silence and irrelevance.

And yet

to her,

I am a passing shadow.

Just another customer.

Just another man with eggs and protein powder in his basket.

Just another voice too quiet

to register

against the screaming chorus of her inbox

or the memory of some other man’s voice

once whispered into her neck.

She doesn’t realize

I noticed her changing her hair color.

Three times this year.

She wouldn’t realize I traced her jawline in my memory

when all I had was the upper third of her face

when masks were more common than eye contact.

She wouldn’t notice

that I recognized her eyes light up

when she talked to the tall guy

in the flannel shirt

with a job probably more exciting than mine.

I’m not a creep.

I swear.

I just grab my items from the aisle,

bag my own groceries,

tap my card

and leave.

On time.

Every time.

But in those 12 seconds of exposure,

I memorize every blink,

every lilt in her laugh,

every way she moves

like life still makes sense to her.

I wonder what her touch feels like.

I envy the man she probably has.

Because in my experience,

very few women are unclaimed

not for long, not ever.

The faster wolves get there first.

The ones who don’t need poems.

The ones who don’t need silence.

The ones who’ve never known what it’s like

to love from the other side of anonymity.

I even wonder

shamefully,

quietly

what the scent of her would be

if I ever had her in the throes of pleasure.

I’m not proud of it.

But I don’t lie to myself.

Men like me can’t afford to lie.

The world moves on.

So I do too.

No one asks how many lonely victories

a man must swallow.

No one notices when he disappears.

They just see the headline,

never the withdrawal symptoms of being irrelevant

to the one woman

whose glance could have rewritten his self-worth.

She’ll never know

I picked a different checkout lane

once

just to see if she’d notice.

She didn’t.

Of course not.

She wouldn’t know

that I paused one morning

in the cereal aisle,

just to breathe in the memory of her voice

after a long week.

And I’m not asking for sympathy.

I’m a man.

We are the disposable sex.

If I cried about it,

they’d call me weak.

If I wrote about it,

they’d call me dangerous.

If I spoke about it,

they’d tell me to shut the fuck up

and “be a man.”

So here I am.

Being a man.

Quietly.

Silently.

From afar.

Because the world doesn’t stop

to notice a man

who dreams too poetically

about a woman

who doesn’t know his name.

But I see her.

I saw her.

And I’ll keep seeing her

until the version of her

that haunts my silence

finally fades

into the noise

of the life I never shared with her.

I am the man afar.

Not by choice.

But by design.

By cosmic assignment.

By the cruel math of visibility and worth.

And if I am to die unknown,

then let my ghost

at least remember her

with dignity.

With poetry.

With ache that didn't ask for permission.

Let the world burn.

Let me be silent.

But never let her be forgotten.

🧠 Read more respect-coded doctrine and emotional architecture at:

👉 https://linktr.ee/ObeyMyCadence

🛡️ Masculine polarity. Scrolltrap psychology. Unforgiven words.

🚪 Warning: This one broke relationships. On purpose.

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Just when you think “Is he too good to be true?”, he goes and proves that he’s everything you thought, and more. ✨🌲🎸🖤🔥🙌

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