romance
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I thought how you thought of yourself as the moon— brilliantly white light, a dot of hope in eternal black. But even your light wasn’t yours. Reflection. And the howling below—that was real. Lobo, me. Smooth surface. You could trick yourself into seeing a smile there. But the truth: scars skip the surface, sink steeply—pieces
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He sat undone. His left leg folded under him, his right stretched into the pale dark as though it belonged to someone freer. The air at 2:30 slipped through the screen and slid across twelve inches of open window. The blinds caught it, sliced it, and delivered it to his skin with the precision of
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The screen glowed in the 2:30 AM stillness, a sudden star in the domestic dark of his bedroom. Her text bloomed, then vanished, a digital ghost that left its afterimage on his retinas. Arlo fumbled for the phone, pressing it awake. He didn’t bother with his glasses; his nearsightedness was a loyal servant in the
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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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The desert doesn’t care about your plans. This was the first lesson Jack Write learned when he traded his graduate thesis on Kierkegaard’s concept of despair for a tool belt and a 1998 Ford F-150 with questionable AC. The second lesson: heat warps everything—glass, metal, morals. Palm Springs at 3:17 PM was a study in
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The bartender polishes a glass that’ll never be clean – appropriate. I’m on my third bourbon, neat, the kind that burns like regret. Sully Erna’s growling through the speakers about devils and crossroads, which feels about right. Another night unraveling at the seams. You’d think by now I’d have learned – the world doesn’t give
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Marylyn murmured “good night” through the phone, and Hank fired back a curt “Night,” thumb smashing the end call button before her rejection could hit—just a silent void now, no echo of the old days when a handset’s clunk marked the end. Gone was the heft of plastic in hand, the small speaker and microphone
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Struttin’ Your StuffYou’re struttin’ your stride,threads loud and bright,pants huggin’ tight,feelin’ just right.Shirt’s a snug tease,assets in view,glidin’ with ease,king of the crew. Think John Travolta,Stayin’ Alive on blast,(beat thumps—boom, you’re fast),head bobbin’ side to side,back and forth, so fly,every eye’s glued,you’re the guy. Boom, boom,chakka, chakka,strut’s in full swing,you’re owning everything—then your big toe-tipsnags
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“The snow fell soft as memory, blanketing the world outside, while the fire within whispered her name—Jacklyn, the spark that never fades.” The last-minute bustle had swept through town like a fevered wind. Shelves at the local grocery stood barren, picked clean by hands clutching canned goods and bread. Firewood was hauled indoors in armloads,
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“The life that I have known is gone, but in its place, a strange new music plays.”— Adapted from W.H. Auden His head bobbed gently, resting against the cold windowpane of the train as it carved smooth, silver lines across the waking landscape, steel wheels humming beneath steel tracks. Dawn crept in slowly beyond the
BB Grey--musings 