No good to me, your midnight call,
a cigarette burn on the silk of night.
I dance alone in the ghost of your saxophone,
heels clicking lies across the polished floor.
Your promise tastes like gin gone warm,
a cherry stem tied tight around my tongue.
I wear your goodbye like mink in July—
glamorous, sweating, impossible to keep.
Love’s a brass note bent forever flat;
I lip-sync bliss, but the record’s scratched.
Still the mirror holds your swaying shape,
a shadow I can’t lead, can’t follow away.