Spoken above the noise
Of fusion jazz,
Slow voices
Lag behind
Staccato notes.
Her hands could
Heal an army of wounds,
Fix dissonant chords
And busted time signature,
As they
Delineate my face
In the pitch of the
Darkened room.
Candles burn down
To their wicks.
Puddles of wax
Coagulate.
In this place,
Time is only
Smoke.
And she is
A strange drug.