Late-night studio, low light and jazz

I keep the studio dark, acid pens glowing like little embers on the table. A Coltrane record spins and I pull an espresso so black it remembers its own edges, the bronze spoon warm in my pocket like a talisman against the quiet.

Laughter drifted up from the fire escape and landed like a memory of a pirouette—shoulders catching light, breath timed with a beat. If that laugh was yours, leave the footsteps; next time I'll trace the space between them with a pen and a smile.