Ashes in the Rain

I. The City Sleeps with One Eye Open

The city hunches like a drunk in the alley,

coughing neon into puddles,

its breath thick with secrets and gin.

Streetlights flicker like tired lies,

barely holding back the dark.

Jackboots echo where hearts once beat,

and in the broken silence,

someone lights a match—

not for warmth,

but to see the face of the man they might have to kill.

II. Her Voice, Like Velvet and Bruises

She walked in like a saxophone solo—

low, smooth,

with a wound in every note.

Lila May.

Red lips,

white dress,

eyes the color of an alibi.

She sang not for applause,

but like each song might save her.

Or damn her.

Sometimes it’s the same thing.

She never looked back when she left the stage.

That’s how I knew she was running.

III. Cigarette Ghosts

I lit one too many smokes that night,

each ember a countdown.

The smoke curled like memory,

drifting into spaces where her perfume used to hang.

She said,

"If I disappear, don’t follow."

But she left the door unlocked,

and a file folder on my desk.

Inside: names, places,

a photo of her sister with a bullet behind her ear.

The kind of truth you can’t hand to a cop.

The kind that bleeds.

IV. Echoes in the Phone Line

A call at 3:16 a.m.

A voice like broken glass:

“They know. They’re coming.”

Then silence.

Not the peaceful kind.

The permanent kind.

I poured bourbon on top of bourbon,

but it only made the ghosts clearer.

And in that cracked glass,

I saw her eyes.

Not blinking.

Not pleading.

Just waiting.

V. Rain That Tastes Like Regret

The storm rolled in like bad news.

Not loud—

just steady,

like someone tapping their fingers on your coffin lid.

I drove through it,

wipers dancing like drunks,

chasing tire tracks that led to the warehouse

where secrets go to rot.

She was there.

Tied to a chair, mascara bleeding down.

Lip split.

Smile intact.

“You came,” she said.

“I told you not to.”

And I—fool, romantic, dead man walking—

said, “Yeah. But I never listen well.”

VI. Guns Speak Louder Than Love

The first shot missed.

The second didn’t.

He dropped beside the crates,

a Syndicate grunt with no name,

just a job:

Clean up the past.

We ran.

Her heels echoing against concrete

like a metronome for heartbeats.

I held her hand.

She held the drive.

“You sure this is worth dying for?” I asked.

She looked at me with quiet fire.

“No. But maybe it’s worth living for.”

VII. Ashes in the Rain

The city doesn’t forgive.

It forgets.

Which is worse.

We got the story out.

The file.

The photos.

The names.

Some were arrested.

Some just vanished.

The newspapers called it a scandal.

I called it Thursday.

She left soon after.

New name.

New voice.

Same eyes.

I still walk the alleys.

Still listen for jazz in the wind.

Sometimes I think I see her,

smoke curling behind her like a promise.

But it’s just the rain,

hiding another goodbye

in its gunmetal mouth.

VIII. The Last Verse

If you ever find yourself in this city,

don’t follow the music.

Don’t trust the light.

And never fall for the girl with the sad song.

Because every heart here

has shrapnel in it.

Every kiss

tastes like a setup.

And every goodbye...

hides a bullet.