Miles

On a night like this the jasmine reigns down on my sense of smell – an involuntary fusion of cloying sweetness and the funk of the city. Can’t have the good without the bad. Miles’ muted tone cries and smiles at the same moment. The chords of the piano support a staccato retort while a swish swish of the brushes tickles the skins. The groove groans and bends as the room fills with smoke and sweat burns the eyes like a tickle between the thighs. So subtle yet you can’t ignore the thought that it could be so much more.

The notes float and create a color blown by the breeze, so content as if to say, “I’ve made it through the pain and all is right for tonight.”

His fingers moved through time and space, there was nothing I could relate to which made it even more perfect. I’d read his biography twice. I never read anything twice. But there was something about his rage, so eloquently understated “The Birth of the Cool.” The nuance of the dagger he thrust into the gut of the establishment and pushed. Smoldering rage in an indifferent wrapper, cheeks puffed – eyes down – wouldn’t give you the time of day as he moved away with a shrug to that lonely place where genius dwells.

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