POETRY – MUSIC

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Sometimes I ask myself
why jazz lives so deep in my skin.
It’s not just music—
it’s liquid neon on the inside,
saxophone sighs bending like light
across my bones.

Every note a pulse of color
I never learned to speak.
It says things
my mouth forgets how to form—
silken grief, slow joy,
that glimmer between ache and awe.

Each time I listen to Miles, Parker, Monk,
it takes me somewhere—
touches me in a place I can’t describe.
Like memory with no name,
just feeling.

Jazz glows like this:
chrome-slick and intimate,
as if someone turned emotion
into a spectrum
and let it dance across my soul.