Sienna, your name is the dusk in my hands,
a slow violet breath over wheat and stone.
I walk the piano’s falling leaves,
each note a candle you left alight.
River of indigo hours, carry me
where your laughter still circles the moon;
I press it like a flower between C and E,
feel the hush bloom back into rose.
Stay, trembling star in the quiet bar—
I play you again, softer than goodbye,
until the horizon forgets how to close.