poem
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“We are all just echoes of something we can never fully hear.” bb grey You dangled your limbs—loosely, languidly, long—over the edge of a timeworn pier,where salt gnawed the timber to shades of grey and black,a stark contrast to the soft ivory of your skin. You traced slow circles,toe-tips dipping like the plucking of a
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“I will die. Morning arrived in a muted gray, the silence heavy, almost suffocating. I stood at the edge of our life together, fingers twitching with the impulse to reach out, to fix something already shattered. She had left in the night, returned without explanation. Her absence was a wound; her presence, a reminder
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“We are together, yet alone—bound by unseen threads, separated by silence.” bb grey We are all prisoners, though the bars shift shape.Some are gold, some are rust, some we never see at all.A crown is a heavy thing, even when invisible.Even when it is only a thought, pressing down. Serfdom—voluntary, reluctant, inevitable.We sign the contract
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“Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere. They’re in each other all along.” — Rumi In fields of wheat spun gold at harvest’s crest,as storm-blue skies, speckled with grey,spill rain like rose petals—nude and pink—against ivory clay, smooth, untouched,waiting for the weight of oil and pastel,for the whisper of charcoal, for colors in between. A stroke of
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Martyred saint,Cupid’s arrow—Lost in flight,A vision narrow. Lover’s dream,Divorcée’s scheme,‘Til death we vowed,Then tore the seams. Better to love and lose, they say,Than never love at all—A hollow phrase,That left me small. I type and think of you,Wishing none of it were true.Yet time makes spaceFor history’s embrace. I smile at memoriesI still chase.
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I am an ugly piece of art. That’s what my phone screen blinked in the text box. Next to it, her portrait—the love of my life. Blonde-haired royalty, her head tipped back in laughter, the weight of her beauty too much for her to bear. Or maybe just too much for me. I had
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Capaldi weeps for nothing.I shuffle forward in the queue of the dead,never once lifting my head,feeling I should create for something. Emperor penguins,a waiting room—life and death strung on a clothesline,attire we wear to tear yet still look fine. Morning clock strikes noon.Motors purr, then roar, then still.Now becomes soon.Restlessness makes for ill. Scurry
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“Running is the greatest metaphor for life: You get out of it what you put into it.”— Mishka Shubaly It’s the Sunday of leaving,half-full boxes, half-measured haste,the weight of what was once worth somethingnow vanished without a trace. I have stood too long at the line,Get set… then silence, then bang—false starts that stole my
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You were a black key lullaby,sharp and flat,played soft against the chords of my heart,pulling me apart—until nothing remained but silence. Now, I sit where I once soared,a melody lost,an echo fading. You were a black key lullaby,each note once perfect in harmony,with me as your backdrop,trying to hold the tuneas you played me false.
BB Grey--musings 