It’s Wednesday. The world’s on hold—
Wall Street holds its breath like a priest before confession,
waiting on the Fed to whisper its gospel of rates.
The headlines scroll with conflict:
dust devils of sand and sorrow between Iran and Israel,
while a man in a white hat chants a forgotten hymn
about greatness, past tense.
And me?
I’m at Rosebuds, beneath a halo of half-drunken coffee cups,
the aftertaste of obligation
still bitter on my tongue.
I’ve signed my name so many times today
that my identity feels like a ghost
haunting the fine print of capitalism.
I wire money through fiber optics and faith,
and click buy on speculative salvation,
Circle, Crypto, Gold—tokens
against the apocalypse or prosperity,
whichever arrives first.
And you—
a continent of chrome and urgency away,
cradled in a chassis of painted steel,
inching forward with your hands on a wheel
and your mind on a podcast
that offers either redemption or damnation
in ten easily digestible steps.
We are all traveling,
by asphalt, algorithm, or astral plane.
We wear our days like threadbare suits,
buttons missing, pockets turned inside out.
The highways eat us,
slowly, gracefully, like snakes molting
the skins of our younger selves.
Yet in the static, the hum, the digital pulse
of “sent” and “seen,”
I feel you—
not as a body beside me,
but as a rhythm beneath the noise.
A filament.
A shimmer in the web between now and forever.
You are the magnetic north
to my wanderer’s needle,
the tether in this zero-gravity commute
between meaning and madness.
Somewhere between divine probability and dumb luck,
our paths got tangled,
in the way spider silk tangles with morning light,
so fragile it could snap
but doesn’t.
And maybe that’s what love is,
a thin line we walk with closed eyes,
navigated not by sight,
but by instinct,
by faith,
by memory of the last time we didn’t fall.
So I write this,
as a signal through the market noise,
through gas fumes and algorithms,
through history and hysteria,
to say I see you.
Not just as you are,
but as we are
in the stretch between two hands
reaching, still.
And maybe that’s enough,
to keep weaving the thread
until this side and your side
become one.
BB Grey--musings 
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