Mero
O wild mountain cherry tree, think us both sorrowful and solitary. Other than your flowers, there is none other who knows me.
Those moments aren't ours any more. They're shut up in a box, buried at the back of a cupboard, out of reach. They're frozen like on a postcard or a calendar. The colours will end up disappearing, fading. They're forbidden to our memories and our words.

@темы: книги, Собака Лайка и бежевый потолок, txt