poem
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In war, you wear two faces—casualty, survivor. In peace, only one remains, and it weighs heavier. Pain drifts in—neither enemy nor friend,a shadow castby the flickering lamp of existence. A war without armies,fought in silence,where each breath is deathand resurrection. The lungs whisper, why?No answer comes. Eyes in the dark—promising nothing,searching endlesslyfor the fracture that
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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
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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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I wished for you to arrive in the shape of a moment,not planned—just… happened.But time, ever cryptic, wore the wrong watch that day.I didn’t know you were already walking through my frequency,your presence trembling inside a missed ring,a number that never belonged to us. No, not ours.Let me trace it again in ink instead of
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I left,then came back,less each time,until what I left behindwas more than what waited for mewhen I returned. This happened with love,with dreams,with promisesmore than I wanted to admit. I tried to believeI came home richer,but truth tugged at me:I left pieces behindand never returned with more. She must have seen it,must have felt itsometimes
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Do you recall the days gone by,Before the net lit up the sky?When phones were fixed upon the wall,And life moved slow, if moved at all. Messages waited by the door,A scribbled note, not something more.No pings or dings to steal the day,Just peace until you made your way. The world was smaller, sure, it’s
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for my son, who flew toward his own sun It’s always been a sin, hasn’t it?To want too much.To hope.To leave.To stay. The days with you—man once a boywaiting for eggs I’d scramblelike penance,as the toaster hummed its tired absolution,those mornings are rosaries now,threadbare prayersslipping through guilty hands. You make your own breakfastin a city
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“She didn’t leave scars—she left blueprints for where to break me again.” bb grey She cut mejust to watch me bleed—her hands steady, eyes dry,as if pain were an old habit,and my heart, a toolfor remembering how to feel. She smiledas I broke—that slow, deliberate smileof someone who knowsexactly where your soulstill flinches. She sleptnot
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Lanterns Gone to Sea This morning came with plans and lines,A house to build, a roof to frame.The page held purpose, measured signs,Not quite the same as love, or flame,But something steadier, less to blame. I traced the framing joists by hand,The ink a kind of slow release,Each line a thing I understand,Unlike the words
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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
BB Grey--musings 