The night bled out
through a failed attempt,
a fragile line.
A voice, thin as the trace on an EKG,
spoke your existence—
some other time—
spiked.
then fell.
An earthquake, somewhere.
A flatline.
A beep.
And me—
caught inside the mouth of silence,
where every word
arrives too late.
One shot to speak.
One prayer it was enough.
But the map of failure
glows brighter than the places I touched.
Everything grinds to dust
when a heartbeat slips its tether.
Goodbye.
My phone hums blue,
then dark.
A reply? A hacker? A ghost?
Or just the midnight heart
attacking its own silence.
I close my eyes—
sleep pretending to be sleep.
Because to know
is a wound sharper
than to dream we are still alive.
At least tonight.
The dark smothers the heat.
The hush presses down.
We scream into dreams,
repeating the day,
that day,
when we were alright—
when the night was still only
a fragile line,
bleeding toward morning.
BB Grey--musings 
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