“We are not the same persons this year as last; nor are those we love. It is a happy chance if we, changing, continue to love a changed person.”
— W. Somerset Maugham
Your silence cuts like glass,
a delayed reply, a shrug that stings.
I wrote you truth, raw and jagged,
to mend the cracks where our story frays.
But you dodge, deflect—
“Tell me how I feel,” you say,
as if my words cage you,
not reach for you.
Emojis flood my screen,
coco.fun clips, a cheap laugh’s mask.
We were epic once, a poet’s fever dream,
not this shallow pulse of memes.
I’m breaking, screaming to be heard.
You cling to safe, to known, to still.
But here, in this stagnant air,
I choke, I fade, I die.
BB Grey--musings 
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