Where the silver star
grows from the grey memories,
the world expands;
the world shrivels,
and the stars—
the stars
grow old with every
punctuation.
Their function,
their tension,
their rhymes,
their vibes—
it all becomes
united under
C minors.
The sax dipped in wax,
its sensory disdain on top of
my pain,
interludes with the sounds
every jazzman ever produced
under the influence
of the cathartic symbiosis
of you and me.
Your tiny ring
on your teeny finger
reminds me of a face
I haven't seen in years.
The face of my pal
whose name rhymes with
[insert a noun].
I can't stand it
anymore.
I can't leave—
yet;
you are me,
and I am
no one.
A pair of black eyes
disappeared unnoticed.
5d ago
May 30, 2026 at 6:25 PM UTC
If I lived a thousand lives
with you,
I still wouldn’t have enough.
I would still ask for more—
more of you,
more of your passion,
more of your jazz,
and my pasta
you do so well.
Well,
nothing seems definitive,
nothing beguiles me
more than the rhythm
and beats
we share over
a glass of Pinot
and the unrecorded vinyl.
Vanilla perfume
and the New Orleans clubs—
no human is restored
from the disdain
my brothers stretch
over gully phrases.
Where the saxophonist
who raised me got her fringe,
and her never-ending endings,
and longings,
and belongings—
only the strong survive.
Where have we gone
with the tones
no one recorded,
and the lights
no nights
can overshadow,
and the stream
no dream
can portray,
and the greedy green
waves of tranquility.
What happened?
Three twenty-seven
is the perfect time
for jazz and depression,
jazz and repression,
verbal oppression,
and the starvation
of the posse nation.
If I had a thousand lives
to live with you,
it would never
be enough.
I would always
crave more.
Sep 23, 2025
Sep 23, 2025 at 6:03 AM UTC
The coffee tastes like light,
The light, the shade of your lips.
Symbols entwine, fleeting,
In the depths of my rising desires.
Your eyelids cast their spell,
Carrying me to the edge of vertigo.
A sweet and defiant shiver
Burns me and enthralls me.
Sep 19, 2025
Sep 19, 2025 at 10:15 AM UTC
Only after I met you
Did I dare to acknowledge
The existence of
Present perfect.
A lonely tree
Craves a caress
No one but you
Can give it.
Silent partition.
Cover your face
With a scarf
Made of neon.
Let the city lights
Beguile you.
Ideas jump out
Like memories
From a wooden
Box.
Sep 19, 2025
Sep 19, 2025 at 8:53 AM UTC