BB Grey–musings

There’s an echo in my chest where your wings used to hum—

a flutter pressed against me, bright as morning’s first yawn.

It wasn’t long ago, that fullness.

Now the space stretches wide, folding me small—

a damp kite tangled in branches,

a paper cup buckling under air.

I’ve tried filling it with anything but sun.

(Even Him—but that’s a spat for another dawn.)

Nothing nests. Nothing lingers.

Except.

This:

You that autumn—

a wild spark slicing through crisp decay,

red and gold leaves tugging at your heels

as you unraveled me, tender and true.

Now you’re the tune I can’t lose—

a half-caught hum that dances

in the steam, at crosswalks,

3 AM when the fridge sings along.

Four notes blooming into spring:

Petals. Buzz. Weak knees. You.

I let it drift for the breeze to snatch—

a dandelion wish hooked on your cuff,

a honeybee’s giddy swirl toward sweet,

the way your name spills soft

when I murmur it to the dark.

Some days it’s a breeze.

Others, a prick.

Always, the thread that shows me

how a heart

can be both

wreckage

and wings.