A whisper stirs inside the crystal rim,
The olive’s eye — a spy on secret things.
She lifts the glass with wrists as pale and slim
As twilight smoke, as midnight’s softened wings.
The bar is velvet dark, a chapel low
Where saints of gin confess in silk and lace.
Each mirror holds a phantom in its glow,
Each glance a gamble, each breath slow with grace.
The jazz uncoils like serpents in the air,
Her laughter — dry, vermouth with lemon bite.
She does not chase the day or seem to care
That dawn is draped in blue and ends the night.
But in that hush, where stars and pulse align,
She drinks the dusk — and makes the evening mine.
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