He lifts the glass like it's a crown,

Reflections swirl in amber brown.

A flash of tips — those nails, precise,

French-edged whispers, cold as ice.

His shirt — a garden, green and wild,

A rebel heart, a painter’s child.

He points a finger to his chest,

Where secrets sleep and don’t confess.

Glass & fingertips, he speaks in signs,

Jazz in his veins, in syncopated lines.

Every glance a note, every pose a chord,

He’s the kind of man you can't afford —

To forget.

A mustache curled with vintage pride,

A gentleman with fire inside.

He toasts the dark, he drinks the light,

He’s sharp as dusk, but soft as night.

No spotlight, just the film’s soft grain,

Each gesture framed in soul and stain.

He doesn’t dance — he glides through time,

His silence rhymes like Coltrane’s lines.

Glass & fingertips, he bends the day,

Into a song that won’t decay.

He’s a jazz refrain in shades of green,

A myth in motion, half-seen —

On the screen.

He sips. He smiles.

The frame breathes slow.

Kodak dreams —

And then he goes.