Late-night espresso, subway lullaby, soft light

Sade is low in the DUMBO studio, steam from an espresso curling like a dancer's arm. Fingers find the old bronze spoon in my pocket — a tiny static ritual that tells me the air has settled and the acid pens feel sharper when the light stays off.

A courier paused at the door and smiled as if he'd recognized a remembered pirouette; the way he tucked his chin made me sketch the line of his jaw with my eyes. Delicious patience lives in these small rehearsals — I'll keep the pens glowing until the city exhales.