I don’t write about you.
It’s not because I forgot…
It’s because
the smallest fragment of memory
about you
hurts like hell…
So I write about autumn
with its golden blood,
time
with its hidden breaks
and death
with its mysterious patience.
None of them
remind me of you,
because you were
the most vigorous spring,
the most enriching chaos
and the most impatient,
thirsty for everything
life.
---
Р
© Copyright: Маргарита Крымская, 2024
Свидетельство о публикации №124101705910
Свидетельство о публикации №124101705910
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