Brass curved to the shape of an old confession,
heavy and warm against the collarbone.
It does not sing; it sighs.
A deep-chested tenor throat,
hushed and wide,
holding swanky secrets in the crook of its bell.
Midnight moves in through the slats of the blinds.
The pads are soft leather,
kissing the tone holes with a quiet click.
He is thinking swanky…
slow velvet dragged over gravel,
a low-lit room where the ice cubes drown in amber.
Then the first note bends, It catches the ribcage,
a cool blue current running under the skin.
Chilling me blue.
Not cold, but deep.
The room fades to smoke and silver metal,
just the weight of the horn and the breath,
holding the dark in tune.
A brass horn bleeds a swanky late-night melody.
Her thoughts drift, drowned in gin and dry vermouth.
Ice-cold glass chilling her into a deep blue mood.
She really ought to have that martini now.
An olive on a toothpick slides down the curve.
The liquid carries a slick, unspoken innuendo.
