poetry
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“Be real,” she said,her voice smooth, practiced,like someone asking for the truthonly to fold it neatly away. Love was a currency to her,spent in small, measured doses,never more than necessary,never without expectation of return. Silence settled between us,thick, heavy—the taste of stale bread on my tongue,the ocean stretching out before me,salt licking the edges of
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“We are not human beings having a spiritual experience. We are spiritual beings having a human experience.” — Pierre Teilhard de Chardin When I Die Bury me beneath the hush of pine,where resin weeps in golden threadsand roots murmur secrets to the soil. Mark me not with chiseled stone,no name, no weight of letters—let the
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Unravel the ocean’s veiled skin,a spectral hush between me and earth,blue sinews clutching my limbs,whispering weightless lies— float, drift, pull—further, further—or drown. The tide chants hymns of urgency,promises carved in salt:“arrive, achieve, or vanish.” I claw towards the vanishing edge,where breath and bone dissolve,where the Fixx hums through vacant veins,a beach of endings waiting,waiting—for me
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She loved being chased. Not just for the thrill, but for the way it made her feel less alone. Like the world still turned for her, like someone, somewhere, believed she was worth the pursuit. She hated being caught. Hated the moment when the hands reached her waist, when desire became expectation, when the chase
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The moon spills silver across your skin,soft shadows tracing secrets I ache to unveil.You stir beneath my gaze, a breath—half a sigh,half an invitation I dare not refuse.Heat lingers between us, unsaid but understood,a silent language written in shivers and sighs. bb grey Let me linger, leisurely, with the weight of my stare,as you lie—naked,
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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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“Let us die young or let us live foreverWe don’t have the power but we never say neverSitting in a sandpit, life is a short tripThe music’s for the sad men” Forever Young, Alphaville A response: Let us chase echoes where time has no tether, Fading like whispers or dancing forever. Fingers trace stories
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I write to visit the pain,to trace the joy I’ve known,when people stood at my side,their voices clear, their faces near. It’s easier to live in the echoesof what has been,to shape the past with words,than to step into the unknown—where joy and pain are strangers,and I am alone. The future whispers promises,but its
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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
BB Grey--musings 