The night is a slow market
on a Sunday afternoon
where strangers roam the streets like cockroaches.
throwing behind you, their serial killer shadows.
Sometimes it feels sort of
alive with neon buzzing
or Mechanical shrieks
of precision parts and burning fuel.
It wants a piece of you.
To swallow you in its buildings.
Its glass shot scorpion sting
hurrying to numb you,
as soon as it gets
under the skin.
If Love was born in Paris
it surely died here in Constanta.
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