BB Grey–musings

Part I: The END.

If only you had wanted to read what I had written for us,

I’m certain our story would have had a different ending.

Part II: (Body)

But here I am, still writing,

each word a paper boat set adrift

on a river that no longer leads to you.

Pages pile like autumn leaves,

stories of what we could have been

scattered by the wind of might-have-beens.

Perhaps somewhere, in another life,

you’re turning these pages,

your fingers tracing the ink of my devotion,

and in that version of our tale,

the ending is just another chapter

in a book that never closes.

But in this reality,

I write these words knowing

they will never find their way home to you—

like letters addressed to a house,

where someone else now lives,

marked “Return to Sender” by time itself.

Part III (Beginning):

Before the silence stretched between us,

before the distance claimed its prize,

I collected moments like seashells—

each one a promise, still unbroken.

Remember how we spoke of forever

as if it were a place we could map,

as if time were clay in our hands,

waiting to be shaped into always?

I started writing then, believing

words could bridge any chasm,

could stitch together any fate.

How was I to know that sometimes

ink bleeds invisible on paper,

and some stories refuse to be told?