Speakeasy Sweetheart

No, she is not my girlfriend
She is my speakeasy sweetheart
We do not kiss in public among the pedestrians
All of our smooches are stolen secrets 
I would not know the bridge of her nose or the tickle of her eyelashes in the daylight
Low-hanging chandeliers and leg lamps are how we know each others cheekbones
My speakeasy sweetheart and I don't dress for the weather
Our skirts are high and necklines though and heels high and necklaces tight
We do not go out under the sky, but under thick layers of cinder and dirt
We haven't kissed in times square or held hands at the Louvre or loved in Paris
But we've shared smiles across from each other in wine cellars and danced in each others shadow
We are not a classical symphony at a southern brunch
My speakeasy sweetheart and I, we know each other through a brassy saxophone and a shiny black piano
We have never had a thanksgiving or a Christmas together but there have been so many evenings
Hidden in the backs of barbershops or below haughty hotels that we could celebrate silently
There is no address that I can scrawl next to her name, circle with a heart
I know her down stairways and behind sliding doors 
For a long time, her name was wherever the next hushed rumor lead to 
"Hey curls"
"Hey rhapsody"
My speakeasy sweetheart and I, we would not nod to each other on a Wednesday
But if I heard a laugh in a dark, bluesy nightclub
I would know my speakeasy sweetheart