She stands in silver shadows,

stockings whispering secrets to the light,

heels poised

like a promise on the edge of another time.

A cigarette dream without the smoke,

a jazz note caught in her spine—

She belongs to Velvet Evenings,

to records that ache and unwind.

The mirror knows her

better than this modern,

restless air;

It reflects a softer rebellion,

a woman who almost was there.

Born for a slower heartbeat,

for glances that linger and stay—

She wears the past like perfume,

and let's it slip,

just slightly,

away.