Him. (II)

Coltrane plays and sun goes down;

wood on the windows makes sun lines on the floor.

You twist the cuban in your fingers

and sniff the length.

Ice melts in your crystal

surrounded by an amber lake.

The yellow light above

makes your ginger and silver brighter,

makes the lines around your eyes deeper,

makes the forest of your eyes like summer.

The amber makes our voices harsher,

and, your laughter softer.

A little haggard,

but, no worse for wear;

your bespoke has seen better days,

but, nothing suits you more.

So, what do you think?

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