Cup the cognac in your palm letting the spirit roll over your
tongue, inhaling a Corona before swallowing. Listening to
Mantovani’s, Greensleeves, from the corset of your garters.
The art of the slow burn.
Staying in the quiet between notes where even memory loses
its certainty. The night doesn’t need to be held to be felt, only
met where it stands. Greensleeves folds through the room like
a memory I never agreed to remember.
With to much in the starch of midnight, the candle melts the
silence. Tracing the lines of your jaw, not with my fingers but
with the ghost of a breath, and “Hidey-ho'” from Minnie The
Moocher.








The slow burn concept sounds intriguing. I’m curious how you captured those moments over time.