writing
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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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The last live performance I saw didn’t have curtains or spotlights—just an office, a boss, and a pathological liar with mascara and crocodile tears.
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“Community doesn’t disappear all at once—it just forgets how to say hello.” bb grey What do you do to be involved in the community? Start small. Smile. Make eye contact. Say hello. It sounds basic, but these days, it almost feels revolutionary. Somewhere along the way—probably while we were busy downloading the next app for
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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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Favorite Brands? Let’s Get Real When I saw today’s prompt about favorite brands, my mind did a quick catwalk strut to the usual suspects: Hermès, Gucci, Rolex—those high-end logos that scream “I’ve made it!” (or at least fake it ‘til you make it). In my younger, slightly delusional years, I’d splurge on stuff I couldn’t
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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
BB Grey--musings 