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When it comes to the grand menagerie of pets, I’d argue the husband takes the crown—both as the best and, oh, the absolute worst. A tamed husband is a marvel, a domesticated beast of burden and delight, trotting faithfully at your side. He’ll fetch the groceries, scrub the dishes, and nod to your every whim
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I’m done binding sorrows into books,stitching grief with every line.Let my pen learn lighter alphabets—words that rise like bread,ink that blooms like dawn on your skin. These hands, wrinkled as old manuscripts,will smooth into new stories.No more erasing what was lost;I’ll write forward,planting laughter like punctuationin fertile white spaces. You’re no longer a characterI conjure
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The bartender polishes a glass that’ll never be clean – appropriate. I’m on my third bourbon, neat, the kind that burns like regret. Sully Erna’s growling through the speakers about devils and crossroads, which feels about right. Another night unraveling at the seams. You’d think by now I’d have learned – the world doesn’t give
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April 2nd Mom had her eye fixed today. They carved out the cataracts—peeled back the fog so she can see clear again. Not that there’s much worth looking at these days. Now she won’t have an excuse when she ignores the dishes in the sink or the way my boots track mud over the linoleum.
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A Letter in the Spirit of Seneca My friend, You speak of freedom as the composer of your days—this is wisdom. But let us examine the score more closely. The blank page you cherish is ruled with invisible lines: the ledger’s demand, the body’s need for bread, the promises made when ambition outstripped the moon.
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“The world breaks everyone, and afterward, many are strong at the broken places.” -Ernest Hemingway (Beginning: The Letting Go)I watch your shadow detach itselffrom mine—no fanfare,just the quiet severingof what I thought was permanent.Your eyes, once warm as whiskey,now reflect only absence. (Middle: The Falling)They say what goes upmust come down.But no one warns youabout
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How have you adapted to the changes brought on by the Covid-19 pandemic? “You can fool some of the people all of the time, and all of the people some of the time, but you can’t fool all of the people all of the time.” –Lincoln This cuts both ways and showed to be true.
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There’s an echo in my chest where your wings used to hum— a flutter pressed against me, bright as morning’s first yawn. It wasn’t long ago, that fullness. Now the space stretches wide, folding me small— a damp kite tangled in branches, a paper cup buckling under air. I’ve tried filling it with anything but
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“Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself. But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires: To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night. To know the pain of too much tenderness. To be wounded by your own understanding of love;
BB Grey--musings 