poem
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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 is everythingi can dojust to feel the low humbuzzes behind my eyesand the tearsdo not ask permissionthey fall i wipesalt from my facewith the same handsi once usedto fold in prayer i promised Godi would hold on but i forgethow many timesi’ve promisedand unpromised he got me throughoncethat one timethat almost ended me and
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“Some loves are written in duet, but end in solo—not because the song was wrong, but because the silence asked for something new.” bb grey The crescendos quiet now,fortes fading to a hush,sixteenth notes slipping into silence,rests long enough to echo absence. Once, we were music,her right hand, light and wild,dancing treble,mine the left—rooted, steady,the
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The questions rattle like wind-chimes in a storm,searching the horizon where the sky kisses the sea,that blurred and trembling placewhere I almost remember how to cry. I am breaking.There are no words to cradle it.Only silence, vast as tidepoolsleft behind by receding grace. If you could feeljust a shadowof the emptiness inside me,you might get
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*Just having a little of a haiku kind-a of fun with an earlier write— Amber glint captured—a brunette leans at the bar,eyes caught by the flameinside a Macallan’s heart—aged swagger, quiet fire. No ice, no pretense—she orders him straight and bare.Glass heavy with want,both hands trace the cold, round rim,breath brushing oak, spice, leather. First
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“The Color of Rest on Sunday”…after Frost It’s Sunday, and the day waits at my window,A silent usher in woolen light.The world, hushed at the seams, has started,But I have not. I sit, not ready yet. Two birds,One, blue with a black-stitched back,The other, cinnamon-flecked and frosted,Chatter in three-four time, a waltz on the limb.Their
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It was always somethinguntil there was nothing. Simon lived the only life he knew—a dockworker with more days off than on,meeting ends in a mannernot unlike a politician:smiles,handshakes,promises made in passing,rarely kept. But he worked. He didn’t question,not even when he probably should’ve—like when Mable,his neighbor in the trailer park,asked for his last dime.She had
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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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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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I woke with a hymnhalf-formed on my tongue—Stricken, smitten, and afflicted—the kind of song that burrowsinto the folds of a child’s memory,etched deeper by dim lights and heavy ritualsin a Lutheran church that never smiled on Good Friday. We sang it every year,never once on any other day.And though it sounded like mourning,we were expected
BB Grey--musings 