It was the way the sultry beat
would drop at a moment’s
notice, lingering in the air to
be absorbed by hearts and
minds – breaking the meters
with repetitions and silence;
it was the way you moved
once the songs began, with
an element of grace swiftly
unpracticed, raw, and inviting.
Our love was a lot like jazz,
unpredictable, yet shaken, all
the while smooth at the soul –
I miss the melodies played to
only a trumpet and her sax,
at a beat only lovers can know.


I had put my
favorite jazz record
on, saddened I had
never taken you
to that club like
I promised;
but all I heard
on repeat was the
sound of your name
brushing my lips,
echoing cries
against a trumpet
and her sax, of a
love won then lost,
true jazz.


it was jazz.
it was love.

on the streets, after dark,
and underneath the lights
of the city where the
stars were meant to shine,
but were hidden between

smog and smoke,
there was a note,
a key, a lyric,
and a voice.

there was love found
on this corner,
and there was compassion
in the music.

I heard him sing;
a raspy voice,
calloused hands
skillfully playing guitar,
with a mind
of dedication and more.

he called it jazz.

I didn’t think it was.
but I called it lovely, all the same.