The questions rattle like wind-chimes in a storm,
searching the horizon where the sky kisses the sea,
that blurred and trembling place
where I almost remember how to cry.
I am breaking.
There are no words to cradle it.
Only silence, vast as tidepools
left behind by receding grace.
If you could feel
just a shadow
of the emptiness inside me,
you might get closer
to naming it,
this soft implosion
without a reason,
yet heavy enough to drown.
It holds me.
It doesn’t ask permission.
These feelings,
they are loyal ghosts,
never gone, only dressed in gauze.
I press bandages against the unseen,
as if forgetting is a cure.
But they don’t heal.
They wait.
And when I come undone,
they bloom again,
some as scars,
some still raw,
red and whispering.
I wonder how I’ve lasted this long,
wrapped in the illusion
that white cloth means clean.
But then,
my son visits.
And the tears fall
not because he’s gone,
but because he stays.
And I am seen.
His eyes hold a sadness
he doesn’t know how to speak.
But I do.
I always have.
I think of you—
where you are now,
as a wave unlaces the sand
beneath my feet,
pulls away my pretense.
I am not beautiful.
But oh, how I try to be.
For God.
For him.
For me.
And still,
I reach for anything
that might save me
from myself.
I call.
It rings.
Then silence.
Even the machines
seem to know
not to answer.
Your voice,
bright, mechanical joy—
dances in my ear.
A sound I haven’t felt in years.
I hang up
before it finishes.
Whisper hello
into the absence.
My boy leaves,
borne by a steel bird
that mocks gravity and logic—
as submarines float
and aircraft carriers don’t fly,
but somehow still do.
Just like hearts.
Just like lies.
And in the sky,
creased and folded,
planes slice through clouds
like origami submarines,
delicate and unreal,
disappearing
beneath bandages
where the wound still weeps,
and dreams
sink slow,
just below
a vanilla milk sky.
BB Grey--musings 
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