Billie Holiday cries softly, somewhere between here and the past—
her melody warms the corners of the room
like the heater humming in time with my breath.
A cappuccino cozies the center of me,
and I write—
to life,
to you,
across this ethereal thread
spun of digits and light.
I weave thoughts and feelings
like a tapestry—
yarns pulled from memory and moment:
scratchy and smooth,
woolen truths, silky lies,
all stitched together,
a daily garment
meant to be worn,
admired,
discarded,
or forgiven.
Some days it fits.
Other days, it hangs crooked,
too loud for the room.
But I wear it anyway.
What choice is there—
to go naked through the hours?
No.
So I weave.
From old cloth and new light,
I try to make something useful,
maybe even beautiful.
Then—
as steam curls up like a prayer,
he walks in.
Dressed in red,
his clothes cut closer than comfort,
but his smile—
that smile—
loosens even the tightest stitch.
He tosses a jade scarf over his shoulder,
adjusts rouge spectacles,
and dances to the register.
“A cortado, please—
and that éclair.
With a body like mine,
why not dare?”
He winks.
The cashier laughs,
and the till rings like a bell at mass.
He sows a seed in her smile.
I type.
He catches my stare.
I look down—
but not fast enough.
He glides to my table,
leans in like we’re old friends,
and asks,
“What in heaven are you working on so intently?”
His grin could ignite wet wood.
I match his red.
“Oh, just some work,” I lie,
my fingers on keys
that unlock
less productivity than confession.
“Oh?” he probes.
“What is it you do?”
“A builder,” I say—
true and false
in equal parts.
“And what are you building now?”
“This and that.
The west wing of that house down the lane—
you may have seen it?”
“I have,” he interrupts.
“It’s beautiful. You did that?”
“Well, in a way.
It wasn’t all me.
There were hands,
many hands,
along the way.”
He nods.
“Well—good luck with that
and whatever else you build.”
He’s summoned by his name,
like a myth made manifest.
“A cortado for Midas?”
calls the barista.
He laughs—
and the room tilts with delight
as he spins his next gold remark.
I return to my screen.
He to his charm.
Billie to her refrain.
And the man beside me—who knows?
But he builds too.
We all build.
On shifting sand—
because even sandcastles are beautiful
for a while.
Or on stone—
like Neuschwanstein,
a fairy tale fortress
rooted in this world,
pointing toward the next.
BB Grey--musings 
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