a twist of legs, a sort of side jump shadow
getting wild behaviour to its happy roots
no-body can resist to this merry-go-round
virus

“amour” is the only word remained in his dictionary
the only drink accepted in his clans like a shard
of life sparkling greater than the sun itself
ashy

moustache hides a strange confidence when
lifted from the always-filled glass
with potion called
manouche

in the eyes of Lewis he caresses
the immortal chords

**© Marius Surleac

I’m not missing you; I have
my cat.
My soft little shadow.
We’re perfectly happy
listening to jazz manouche
and taking selfies on the
floor together.