You struck the match—
and blew.
A stew
of me and you,
left simmering
in not enough.
I was the wick,
the flicker,
the bust
beneath your breath.
Insecurity—
your favorite weapon.
Everything you wrong,
even the way I hung,
wrongly.
Painfully penetrative,
you split me
open barely wide—
just enough
to feel less.
A ghost now,
residing in your periphery.
I smile.
(An imaginary mend.)
“It’s got to be okay,” they say.
So it’s so.
“Let’s go!”
No thanks.
Not today.
Enough is sometimes
too much.
Good Friday aches,
but Sunday’s always coming—
another chance
to start again.
But how?
In the same suit?
These shoes,
soles full of holes,
walking a mile
in mines?
Blow up
this thing called time.
“It’s not you—
it’s me.”
(Which, by default,
is us.)
Trust?
Rust.
Lust?
Bust.
BB Grey--musings 
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