BB Grey–musings

“Be real,” she said,
her voice smooth, practiced,
like someone asking for the truth
only to fold it neatly away.

Love was a currency to her,
spent in small, measured doses,
never more than necessary,
never without expectation of return.

Silence settled between us,
thick, heavy—
the taste of stale bread on my tongue,
the ocean stretching out before me,
salt licking the edges of my fate,
a tide washing clean
what I no longer wanted to hold.

At eight, I called,
punctual, disciplined,
a ritual performed without thought.
She smiled, a flicker of satisfaction,
checked me off the list
like an errand completed,
then turned off the light.

Once, I had been untamed,
wind in my chest, fire in my hands.
But love, or something like it,
threaded a leash through my ribs,
soft at first, then unrelenting.
I traced circles in the dust
where passion once burned,
watching embers cool into memory.

Still, even a caged thing
hears the echo of the wild.
One night, I answered.

Red wine stained my lips,
moonlight held me like a secret.
I laughed,
not at her, not at us,
but at the sheer weightlessness of being.

I sang sad songs with happy endings,
kept my own secrets,
dealt my own hand.

Years passed.
Sometimes, I still thought of her—
the box, the bread,
the quiet expectation of my voice at eight.
But never with anger.

I had walked away with nothing,
yet somehow, I had everything.
Because love, if it is real,
is never a box to be checked,
but a river—
wild, uncontained,
always moving forward.