Sipping my tea.

Writing poetry at a jazz bar, closing my eyes.

Silencing the noises of these voices that linger in the air.

Feeling.

Being.

Touched by the music, I fall,

And I think I’m having the most fun of them all.

Eyes filled with wonder fall upon me.

Question mark pupils ask me why I’m so chilled.

As if they had never seen a man writing down his bars in a bar while sipping tea.