Midnight Blues

The trumpet cries beneath the neon glow, a golden wail that haunts the hollow night. The bass line walks where lonely spirits go, its heartbeat steady, low and laced with bite. Her voice is velvet, dipped in smoke and sin, a lullaby for hearts too torn to mend. She sings of love, of loss, of what has been, each note a ghost that lingers to the end. The whiskey sways inside a heavy glass, the shadows dance like lovers, slow and worn. Outside, the city hums—a world so vast, yet every soul inside that room feels torn. The music fades, but echoes never die— a broken heart still sings beneath the sky.