If I were dying,
would you steal the last breath
from the seam where sky kisses sea,
pour it into my lungs
and tell me lies sweet enough to dream by—
then step into the fog,
where I could only follow with closed eyes,
holding you for a thousand nameless days?
If I were crying,
would you unthread my face from your memory,
let it bleed into the folds of a stranger’s shirt,
find solace in the glint
of something that was never me—
and pretend
the ocean inside me never raged?
If you were lying,
would my silence become your key,
clicking open the cage of years—
the broken clock I buried
beneath the river,
still beating backwards
to the hour you forgot my name?
If you were sighing,
because the world slipped past
while you built your house in the fog,
would you see the smoke of my dreams
curling at your feet,
turning the earth to glass,
the sky to salt?
It hurt—
the leaving,
the grieving,
the forgetting,
the breathless hours spent
sewing your name into clouds.
You left,
with the lantern of my heart still swinging
in the hollow of your hand.
And maybe that’s the truth of it:
I never truly came back—
only learned how to vanish
without making a sound.
BB Grey--musings 
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