Dawn leans its shoulder to the pane,

a silver spoon sings soft refrain;

fresh coffee lifts in ghostly streams,

like incense rising through my dreams.

The world still sleeps beneath its blue,

but I awake to something true:

the hush that wraps the heart in light,

the tender silk of fading night.

They ask me why I never stay

where laughter burns itself away,

why I slip out when glasses shine

and leave the glitter, smoke, and wine.

How could I make them understand

my soul does not seek the crowded band,

but one low lamp, one quiet tune,

one velvet room, one cobalt moon?

For I have learned what mercy is:

not every emptiness amiss.

Some silences are warm and wise,

like smoke that curls, then gently dies.

My solitude is not a scar,

not some abandoned, lightless bar;

it is the saxophone at two,

a velvet ache, a note of blue.

It is the amber, shaded glow,

the slowest song the lost ones know;

the kind of loneliness that stays

and turns to gold in dimming haze.

I walk alone through park and street

where leaves and sun in secret meet;

I pass the lovers, hand in hand,

the little kingdoms softly planned.

I do not envy, do not grieve;

I watch the living dusk unweave.

Each glance a line, each laugh a sign,

each passing life a work divine.

There is a chest inside my breast

where broken hymns and wonders rest;

old griefs in lace, bright joys in flame,

the lips I kissed, the ones I name.

I open it when I am still,

when midnight bends to my own will;

I touch each memory as though

it were a record playing low.

And in that private, sacred air,

I meet the truest version there:

not made for noise, nor dressed for show,

but lit within by embers’ glow.

My solitude is not a scar,

not some abandoned, lightless bar;

it is the saxophone at two,

a velvet ache, a note of blue.

It is the crimson stage half-lit,

the final match, the cigarette;

the kind of loneliness that blooms

like perfume in forgotten rooms.

Sometimes I am a slender tree

alone, yet held by all I see;

the wind my hands, the rain my grace,

the sun a kiss upon my face.

I have been emptied, I have burned,

and still my softer self returned;

now night can hold me like a hymn,

low-lit, unhurried, close, and dim.

My solitude is now my art,

the midnight lounge inside my heart;

where saxophones in smoky light

make holy all the broken night.

No, I was never left behind—

I simply chose a gentler kind

of love: the one that asks of me

to stay, at last, and simply be.

A spoon against a porcelain cup,

the dawn outside, the steam rising up;

one shaded lamp, one final tune—

my soul alone, and not too soon.

In velvet hush, in silver air,

with smoke like prayer uncoiling there,

I find the home I wandered through:

my quiet heart, my midnight blue.