A Fifth of Jack
Blank pages later,
you etched your name into my mind—
a spark I could never quench.
Pastel prose and smeared art,
oil vibrant yet marred,
a still life rewritten in hesitant strokes.
In charcoal hues my heart smolders;
pain shatters into shards of broken glass,
a quiet river of a bitter past.
You turn the page—
an indifferent, unyielding white—
while life rages on,
colors burning wild,
tossing aside those too frail to fight.
The cursor blinks,
each keystroke carving into granite,
where guesses lie entombed,
free to write,
or rewrite
the story of our plight.
BB Grey--musings 
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