BB Grey–musings

---

Verde cries to the rhythm of a cold keyboard
clicking like teeth in winter,
truth hidden in the pause between strokes,
where feeling seeps through the lies we tell ourselves
just to sleep.

A leaf, unaware, drifts into a fight it never chose,
tempest-tossed,
while I—anchored in memory—
think of you,
not in a place marked by maps
but in lands worn thin by time,
by fate,
by footsteps that once moved in tandem.

I listen for your voice
the way sailors watch stars—
not for sound,
but for direction.
Even in silence,
even in the cacophony of everything lost,
I feel you.
Still.
And I dare not wake from it.

I close my eyes,
and there you are
not whole, but real,
a shape in smoke,
midnight air thick with ghosts,
and all I want is to breathe again
the scent of what we were.

If your hand exists
in any realm,
any reach—
then let it guide me,
wherever it may lead.

But the fight for you
was always just the hunger
for more than you could give.
And still, you asked me
to stop starving.

But all I ever wanted
was to be near
the place
where we once sparked,
where we became.

Now, I walk alone
the path I know too well—
its stones remember my name.
I mutter my regrets
like old prayers with no gods left to hear,
say it’s okay
because no one wants to hear otherwise,
while knowing,
deep in the marrow,
that it never really was.

---