BB Grey–musings

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The sun is practicing its escape,
pulling a blanket of clouds
over its tired shoulders.
I watch it go.

This gray afternoon has been a thief,
lifting me from my own life,
leaving me with thoughts
that don’t fit my hands.

I’ve been counting victories,
stacking them against the losses.
The sky holds its own scale—
evening will be the judge.

There is a phone that expects my voice,
an email blinking like a stubborn star,
bills lined up like obedient soldiers,
and this mind with no pause button.

I drift in and out of focus.
Smooth jazz hums in the corner.
Red wine keeps my company
while I take inventory:

These last few years,
I’ve been stitching stories—
some as old as silence.
If I began one now, you might ask—
Is this the one about the girl?
The leaving, the hurt,
the heart that beats like a confused drum?

Yes. That one.
Just told by a different ghost.

We are all borrowed narratives
waiting for new ears to hear us
into being.

So I offer this fragment,
this handful of dust and light.
Writing this way is simpler,
yet says more—
leaving the door ajar
for stories I haven’t met yet.

I’ll claim them when they arrive.
Someone should.

That last refrain
must have been a guitar solo—
it overstayed its welcome,
unless you’re Hendrix,
in which case,
why speak at all?

But we can’t all be legends.
There is more room
in the waiting room
than in the delivery.

Most of us are spectators—
watching life happen.
A few
are the happening.