love
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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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“The moment you have to ask for certainty, you’ve already felt its absence.” bb grey She rose onto her toes, as if by getting just a little closer, she might finally reach the part of him that always felt just out of touch. It wasn’t his height—it was the distance. Still, she reached for him
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“My father never spoke in parables, but his hands told stories clearer than any sermon. In wood, he found truth. In silence, understanding.” The sander thrummed in my grip, its vibration crawling up my forearm like a pulse, like memory. Mahogany dust hung in the warm air, rich and sharp, smelling of patience, of near-perfection,
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Prompt of the Day: What’s the Legacy You Want to Leave Behind? Legacy? Sounds like something for kings, tech moguls, or that rich uncle who left you his vintage comic collection in his will. Merriam-Webster’s first definition agrees: legacy’s just cash or stuff you pass down. Snooze. But the second definition? That’s the juice—a lasting
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—have you ever broken a bone? Picture this: a scrappy backyard baseball diamond, cobbled together by three siblings with big dreams and zero budget. First base? A sickly, half-dead plant wheezing in a faded terracotta pot, so heavy we nearly busted a gut dragging it into place. Bits of clay flaked off, sticking to my
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What the Mirror Cannot Holdfor the one who stays This morning, again,I looked into the mirror.Not to admire—but to assess the damage.A wrinkle deepens by my mouth.My skin forgets its old light.A tenderness in my jointssings its low, persistent song. The world does not mourn this shift.It sells creams and knivesand digital masks.It tells me—I
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“Some people leave quietly. Others leave a silence that echoes for years.”— Unknown i packed our memoriesin a suitcasestamped return to senderbut the postage was dueand no one would pay so i carry you stillfolded between my ribslike a crumpled letterthat once said foreverbut now only bleeds you made everythinga little more beautifuleven the sadnessthat
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It’s 4 p.m., and my inbox is a graveyard of emails that feel important but probably aren’t—digital paperweights holding down nothing but my will to live. The world spins on. Whether I reply today or tomorrow won’t matter to anyone, least of all me. Earlier, I take my mother to the doctor. Routine physical, except
BB Grey--musings 