Wearing plum like I invented the color—
shoulders soft, neckline sharp, legs crossed like no other.
Satin hugs hips like the universe took her time,
and I’m sipping on something aged, like a vintage rhyme.
The Dupont Hotel hums a low jazz purr,
Diana Krall croons like she knows her and her.
Candlelight flirting with my cheekbones,
and baby, even the chandeliers are catching tones.
I’m not in a rush—God is still setting the table.
And me? I’m the main course—unshaken, able.
They ask, “What are you doing out here all alone?”
I say, “Beloved, solitude is how queens set the tone.”
The waiter asks if I’d like dessert. I smirk,
“Darling, I am the dessert. And I know my worth.”
Every note Diana sings slides down my spine
like an old flame’s memory—I sip, I recline.
No chasing. No scheming. No performative grace.
Just me, my plum dress, and this velvet-draped space.
I smile at my reflection in the wine glass rim—
thinking, “Damn girl, your overflow is your hymn.”
Because to receive is to know the plum tastes sweeter
when you’re not begging the tree to feed ya.
It falls right into your hand—ripe, warm, divine—
just like this moment, this dress, this time.
So I stay in my flow, let the sax seduce the air,
with nowhere to be and everything to wear.
And if life is a lover, tonight I flirt back—
in heels, in plum,
in power,
and track—
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Healing Majestically 