I’m done binding sorrows into books,
stitching grief with every line.
Let my pen learn lighter alphabets—
words that rise like bread,
ink that blooms like dawn on your skin.
These hands, wrinkled as old manuscripts,
will smooth into new stories.
No more erasing what was lost;
I’ll write forward,
planting laughter like punctuation
in fertile white spaces.
You’re no longer a character
I conjure in margins,
but a real hand turning the page beside me.
The piper’s been paid in full.
Now the song’s ours to rewrite—
not in minor keys,
but in chords that tremble
with what’s yet to be sung.
BB Grey--musings 
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