love
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Some people are addicted to chaos because peace is unfamiliar.—Unknown The calendar circles something close. I don’t mean to wound—only to tell the truth: we’re speaking across a distance we built, one line at a time. You said, “We need to have a conversation.” It lands like corporate speak, a eulogy before the body’s even
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A man fixes what’s broken in a woman’s house long after he’s stopped being able to fix what’s broken between them. Brett was on the phone with Kelly, listening as she recounted the small dramas of her workday.“So-and-so was complaining about this and that,” she said, her voice running out of steam until resignation set
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Jesus loves you, the sign read. A crooked heart leaned against the words—hand-drawn, imperfect, but certain. A King’s promise sketched onto cardboard, lifted above the choking traffic of the 101. The valley swallowed me whole. I was just another cell in the city’s concrete artery, staring toward the San Gabriels where the light still knew
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Have you ever loved a photograph? Not the person.The paper. Corners curled.Edges yellow.Your fingerprints pressed into it—again, again. A relic.A prayer. Flat image—yet it breathes.Two into three.Three into somethinguntouched by time. I fall inside.Invent the dialogue.Score the silence.Make the light softerthan it ever was. The picture forgiveswhat memory could not. I keep too many.They hold
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The Trojan Horse, Revisited They say a Trojan horse works only once—unless it’s carved so beautifulit blinds the guard at the gate. And you—you were that beautiful. I opened the walls,welcomed you in,mistook the hollow for holy,the silence for love. You studied my blueprints,found the unguarded doors,and from your belly spilledarmies of half-truths,promises sharp as
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Chapter Title: Silt I’m sorry.I didn’t have what you needed.What I gave was ordinary.Brief. The words—they wait in silence.Lined up like ghosts.But they dieon the way to my mouth. Only I’m sorry survives.Two small words.Tired.Misunderstood.Still, they walk forward. I’m sorry I couldn’t hold you.That I blurred in your eyes—like newsprint left out in the rain.
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A fraud, they said. But to be a fraud one must first know the real thing.I never got the blueprint, only the ghost of a house.This rope, not hemp but memory, knots me to myself.I dream of Houdini-ing out, each kiss from my wife a lockpick made of breath. I was married once. I think
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He sat undone. His left leg folded under him, his right stretched into the pale dark as though it belonged to someone freer. The air at 2:30 slipped through the screen and slid across twelve inches of open window. The blinds caught it, sliced it, and delivered it to his skin with the precision of
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of course you said we& so i unlearned my own namefor the shape of an us only to findthe space between your hello& your goodnightis an oceanwhere i amdrowning alone. you have your houseyour children a steady chorusin the same keyyou have the same wallsthat have held other voices& called it home. & me?i have
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“It’s been seven hours and fifteen days,” (Sinéad O’Connor, Nothing Compares 2U)or 2191 days if you’re the kind who needs the math, since you walked in like you owned the placeand bent me into a kind of happy I didn’t trust but wanted anyway.It only needed water, we thought.Turns out it needed a whole lot
BB Grey--musings 