writing
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You were a black key lullaby,sharp and flat,played soft against the chords of my heart,pulling me apart—until nothing remained but silence. Now, I sit where I once soared,a melody lost,an echo fading. You were a black key lullaby,each note once perfect in harmony,with me as your backdrop,trying to hold the tuneas you played me false.
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“The best thing to hold onto in life is each other.” — Audrey Hepburn It was nice to hear your voice last night—the last voice I heard before the day folded itself away. Who would’ve thought that working on a Google spreadsheet could feel like a moment of connection? But it did. You did. We
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“Trust, if it ever truly existed, hangs by a thread—a spiderweb filament stretched thin between two points: you and me. Once, we were tethered by chains forged in shipyards, strong and unyielding. Now, those chains have snapped, leaving us adrift, floating farther apart toward horizons we’ll never share.“ The rain falls softly outside, but
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“The lake still reflects and doubles anything at the water’s edge, making me feel I was there, and the double could shoulder and take all that is wrong with me and carry it away.” The Lake, the Screen, the Void It’s another day. The lake sits there, smug in its stillness, reflecting everything at the
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“he burned with a fire that knew no end. His hands, broad and calloused,his heart, even more-so. He could twist and turn,push and pull,pound and punch,maul and mallet—his hands,instruments of labor,implements of intent. He could love, then lose,wish, then want,withstand, yet waver,give, yet get—his heart,a blazing furnace,yet a flickering flame. Celebrated for his hands’ craft,despised
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In this cell, my new pickle,Locked in like a riddle,God’s playin’ games, I’m in the middle,Brought a friend with a sickle. Prayin’ on my knees, beggin’ please,Countin’ sheep, no Zs, just disease,Woke up in this mess, no peace,Dreamt of freedom, but it’s all just tease. Warden’s screamin’, “Time’s up, son!”But I just sat down, just
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armor against the daggers of the world I have these beads, worn smooth, heavy with the weight of grief, prayer beads, perhaps, oiled by the endless rolling through sprocket teeth, like fingertips tracing the edges of a forgotten dream. They lie in wait, recoiled upon a black lacquered table, ready to take their place at
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“Life, it’s falling, stumbling, leaving marks…“ Life is a series of snippets—like 30-second commercials selling us narratives about ourselves, to ourselves, and to others. Saturday, Rainless. The day hung heavy with the promise of rain, yielding only sweat. I had been to Los Angeles, left a message, texted early, and answered your call with silence
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they fed me words like stale crackers through a chain-link fence while I pissed in the gutter and called it love messages at 2 a.m. “u up?” and I’d crawl through broken glass to read them like the dog I was cheap vodka and cheaper promises that’s all they gave while I sat
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“Each algorithm-curated morsel falling like manna from silicon skies, too perfectly sized to choke on, too sweet to resist.” Google knew the recipe for the feast I’d been searching for all my life, Each algorithm-curated morsel falling like manna from silicon skies, Too perfectly sized to choke on, too sweet to resist. Motionless save for
BB Grey--musings 