Love age

Look - I was ice, and you dissolved my glaze,
Where once a foot could skid and fall astray;
A mutual spring, a small, solar blaze -
A reckless chance to wake today.

Sneeze - once more - don’t hide it in your palm;
That trembling breath is richer when it flies;
With cinnamon and smoke, with pepper, salt - no harm -
Fresh seasoning for nose and eyes.

From sounds that make an octave out of speech,
No staff, no notes, no script to keep it tame;
A waking music begging, “Play - repeat - ”
Shamanic, wild, and primal flame.

Brush me with your elbow - click - the circuit seals;
A lightning rod, you cast your look and bolt:
Within that look, some truth you cannot feel -
Don’t turn back, flashing heels, and keep the volt.

The gooseflesh ran - admit it - marching wide,
Racing for sweetness, cutting every lane;
A parade of scent and sound, a rising tide -
A fan-spread discharge: frisson in the vein.



In this text I wanted to capture not a “relationship story", but the moment a connection switches on - when intimacy stops being an idea and becomes something the body can measure: warm air, a sneeze, spices, sound, a brush of an elbow, and then the circuit closes. That’s why the language is slightly engineering-like and slightly shamanic: love is physics and ritual at once, something primal that doesn’t need notes, rules, or even a literal explanation.

“Lyubi stok” (originally in Russian) is a wordplay title - you can hear lovage in it (the herb), and also “love, stream” as if addressed to a flow: don’t clamp it down, don’t overcontrol it, let the energy move, leave, return, and mark itself with the most honest signal - frisson, that fan-shaped electric ripple of goosebumps when the “yes” is spoken not by the mind, but by the skin.

Перевод на английский моего стихотворения "Люби сток"