August 2025
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“Chancho. When you are a man, sometimes you wear stretchy pants.” Nacho Libre Nacho Libre drops that gem on his sidekick while getting busted in his luchador tights, and damn if it didn’t sneak-attack my brain the other day. Picture this: I’m crawling along the freeway, soul-crushing traffic turning my car into a rolling therapy
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Piernas de viento,largas,cruzando el filo donde el aire sangra. Las lágrimas esperan,quietas como cuchillos en la mesa,pero tú no paras,ni miras atrás. Las piedras lloran por ti,rezan un Padre Nuestroque nunca acaba.Repites el guiondel sufrirpor unosolo. Te espero.Lo sabes.Te vale apenas más que nada,el despojo que queda de mí. De la flaca no me guardo
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Verde cries to the rhythm of a cold keyboardclicking like teeth in winter,truth hidden in the pause between strokes,where feeling seeps through the lies we tell ourselvesjust 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 mapsbut in lands worn thin by
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I wished for you to arrive in the shape of a moment,not planned—just… happened.But time, ever cryptic, wore the wrong watch that day.I didn’t know you were already walking through my frequency,your presence trembling inside a missed ring,a number that never belonged to us. No, not ours.Let me trace it again in ink instead of
BB Grey--musings 