love
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If I were dying,would you steal the last breathfrom the seam where sky kisses sea,pour it into my lungsand tell me lies sweet enough to dream by—then step into the fog,where I could only follow with closed eyes,holding you for a thousand nameless days? If I were crying,would you unthread my face from your memory,let
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What’s my favorite quote? We’ve all got a few go-to quotes—those trusty, timeworn lines we pull out like Swiss Army knives when life starts to wobble. Some are wise, some are funny, and some just prove we’ve watched Nacho Libre one too many times. But the best quotes, the ones that really matter, are the
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The world turns gold, amber, brown—leaves crisp underfoot like forgotten letters.The lake house stirs from its long solitude,windows blinking awake as tires crunch gravel. From distant cities they come:children peering through screen doors,mothers nesting in knitted sweaters,fathers spiraling pigskin through November air. The table groans under the weight of memory—mashed potatoes smooth as unspoken apologies,pecan
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Today’s writing prompt: Have you ever been camping? I woke up tucked inside a sleeping bag in the back of a 1974 Ford LTD station wagon — the original lowrider SUV, if you ask me. The back seats folded flat, creating a makeshift bunk where my six-year-old brother was snuggled to my right, and my
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Hey Dad, How’s the view from where you are? Is Jesus keeping you company, sharing stories over some cosmic equivalent of coffee? Yesterday was your birthday—eighty-one, if time even bothers to count where you are. Do you celebrate, or is that date just a faint echo of a life left behind? I wonder, sometimes, if
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“Winners quit fast, quit often, and quit without guilt”― Seth Godin, The Dip Knowing when to quit. I’ll never forget stumbling across Seth Godin’s book, The Dip, and hitting a line that stopped me cold: “Some of the most successful people are the best quitters.” My brain did a double-take. Growing up with immigrant parents who
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Billie Holiday cries softly, somewhere between here and the past—her melody warms the corners of the roomlike the heater humming in time with my breath.A cappuccino cozies the center of me,and I write—to life,to you,across this ethereal threadspun of digits and light. I weave thoughts and feelingslike a tapestry—yarns pulled from memory and moment:scratchy and
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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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“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;
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When I was five, I was a lost boy,a Peter Pan with a heart full of Neverland,and I didn’t want to grow up.I’ve always had a hard time letting go—of things, of moments, of the small universethat spun around me at five years old. To give up being five felt like betrayal.My world was a
BB Grey--musings 