It is so cold, like in a ice house. Charming wind touches of dusts mixed with your delicate neck. Everything is awkward. From one banged bottle fragment till there is a pile of broken glasses. And the possibility of cuts are huge like a single mother’s worries about his son being a gay. Don’t worry, we suppose to be joyful.
The girl with long, brown hair is looking at you, actually staring. At every single, little move you’r making. She is waiting, and don’t know why and for what. Actually.
Maybe your touches and endless: ‘’Oh my God, you are so pretty’’ were only a blink of moment or a magic co-production of alcohol? You are like all of them? Maybe, I should throw in you in a pile of others? Together with one who badly wanted me to put in his pocket or with one who used to sing a song about me? But maybe you are unnamed like you’v got no name in my eyes.
But still, you are killing me slowly, bit by bit. In fact you are killing everything, all the fucking time. You should know, it is impossible – me and you, it won’t work. Be happy that I am actually writing this story.
I belong to one who can fight against flames of hell. Give me a couple of pounds and I will buy a liqueur. At this time I won’t drink, I will let you to do that. I want you to tell me all what you said, please, one more time. In a charming wind touches of dusts and your delicate neck. That’s a passion, body.