Like the warm syrup of a low saxophone in the billowing streams of languid cigarette smoke, you hit me like a torch song.
A low cut, dark hair, eyes smoldering, bonfire; drawing the attention of a lonely spotlight.
Bringing down the walls of Jericho, with a voice born of desire and ruination. Powerful as a cataclysm, subtle like rainfall, seductive as a sinful smile.
Every patron your paramour, every lyric your confession. You hide like a frightened child behind the melodies and harmonies that cloak you, center stage. Each word sung, dripping from your painted, parted lips, lashes us into dreamy submission.
The rise and fall of the music, plays out like your written history. A whispered crescendo followed by a mighty refrain. Tearing hearts and healing scars with the breath in your lungs.
With that final note sung, we have lived a life and lost a love, together, in the span of one torch song.