Love the Hustle

Play Beethoven for me, he says begrudgingly, like I know my classics.

This is a dating +plus one, arm around the waist, hold hands tactic.

What if the hustle was love, not money?

In the evening, a book on the patio,

a candle to light,

a nocturne to play softly, melanch0ly,

aching, alone again but quiet and kind, like solitude is this place we’re meant to be, and enjoy, like the olden days before the machine where the hustle was all we did to simply sleep.

The moon creeps in these moments,

a wolf, a moth, a thought, a pen,

She writes again, dreaming, of what hasn’t yet been.