thoughts
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she was a fleshing gal,okay—Ruebeneque,but I never met a RuebenI didn’t eat. she was different.her Sav-on mascara caked heavyon her upper left eyelid,open just a touch widerthan the right. her lip trembledwhen she asked me the time.“half past ate,” I said.she smiled like she understood.I looked down—respect, or maybe shame. she sat next to me.
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A shadow on the wall,i move—a moment after the Creator,mimicking,but black. The in-between—the Sonand me. A sinthat puzzles,pieces me apart. And so, I remain—a shadow.
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“If you’re going to give me something, make it a damn good bottle of whiskey and let’s not talk about it.” -Charles Bukowski It begins with an idea. The idea festers, grows. The perfect gift, the one that will make them see you differently, better, deeper. You research. You wander through stores, click through
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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
BB Grey--musings 