Latest Blog Post

Widow’s Fog, London Lights

You're no longer here, and it's been a while. I still set two glasses on the bar out of habit. Still pour his whiskey, let it breathe, then drink it myself. The silence afterward is louder than any gunshot.

I miss the weight of another body in the bed. Not just sex—though God, I miss that too—but the simple gravity of someone breathing beside me. I miss arguments at 3 a.m. about whose turn it was to feed the fish we never bought. I miss being seen without having to draw blood first.



Tonight the city feels like a dare. I could call any number in my phone—rivals, lovers, pawns—and they’d come running. But I want more than obedience. I want collision. I want someone who’ll push back when I bite, who’ll trace the scar on my hip and ask how it got there without flinching. I want to be reckless again, not just ruthless.

I stub the cigarette, watch the spark die. Tomorrow I’ll plan the next job—art theft, maybe, something that makes my pulse race. But tonight I’m just a widow on a balcony, fog in my lungs, aching for hands that don’t know my reputation yet.
London doesn’t sleep. Neither will I.
Not until someone new makes me.