We fly away. Disgusted morning.
And roommates. And a student’s doss.
It was the life before reforming,
Before her kiss, before the loss.
Sometimes I feel like she is near.
But it’s a fake or state mirage.
My room. And nothing’s clear.
Her doom. Her sabotage.
She was the finest-finest summer.
And winter or any springs.
Like if you had the luckiest number.
Like an angel without wings.
Up to the corners than it’s colder.
Up to the Hell which is not so hot.
We’ve come and grown older.
But I can’t remember she was or not…
26.12.2025 (03:36 am)
She was or not
© Copyright: Максим Митрофанов 2, 2026
Свидетельство о публикации №126010800995
Свидетельство о публикации №126010800995
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