This speakeasy is beautiful
Golden brass-colored ceilings
1920's decor and refurbished upholstery
Special treated dark stain mahogany
All inside of what looked like a bank vault.

You can smell sophistication
In every black-tie patron,
Money and leather,
floral perfume and musky aftershave.

Some content with their pinkish-red cosmos
Or simple whiskey sours,
Others preferred their martinis with espresso,
A couple of designer drinks with flecks of flower petals
But I wanted something posh and classic.

Just some cognac,
Triple-sec,
lemon juice
And light garnish to keep it cute.

tangerine and honey hue,
Scented like a citrus orchard
Mixed with brandy,
A sip or three later,
And I'm feeling quite dandy.

When it comes
to the verdict

— no noose
is good noose

I don't know what to call it—
there’s no labels on our jars
just the taste of feeling safe
when the world forgets
to be kind—
in silence
in tears
in the act of terrible singing
and to let each other be
without fixing—
like two cool cats
napping on opposite windowsills—
both catching light
without stealing it.

I don't ask
why you need to be quiet
whether happy or sad—
and you don't ask
why I stay up to see the sunrise
or why I stay up late
talking to the moon.

We don’t measure what this is—
we just make room
for each other's storms
place our phones on the counter
and mean it
when we take time
for each other.

You know
when I need a loud no.
I know when you need
a soft it's okay
and I never follow you
into storms
you choose to weather alone.

I never knock too loudly—
just wait
on the porch of your quiet
hands in my pockets
not asking you to hurry.

This—whatever it is—
feels like a home.

(for the Woman, and the Cowards who Fear Her)

she was never too much—
only too alive
for those who mistook control
for strength
and silence for peace.

her becoming was not a performance.
it was a war—
and the ones who claimed to love her
dropped their weapons
only to place their hands
around her throat
in the name of order.

they called her chaotic,
but it was their cowardice
that feared the shape she would take
if left untouched
by their grip.

they chose the seductress,
the one who dances at the edge
of her own erasure—
pliant, priestess of their small gods,
goddess of their easy pleasure.

but the true woman is not
a priestess of men;
she is a temple unto herself.

and to know her,
to truly see her,
requires the man to suffer.

to suffer her beauty
without owning it.
to suffer her fire
without extinguishing it.
to suffer the rise of a soul
that will not yield
to his fear of being seen as less.

he must descend
into the fragmentation
that makes him reach for control—
and there,
only there,
may he begin to rise.

and she?

she is not waiting anymore.

she was always the fire.

and the fire needs nothing

but its own spark

to blaze.