To my husband
I am your rusty treasure.
I'm trading warmth and silence
For screaming guilty pleasure.
Tiptoeing through the darkness,
I stumble, run, fly, crawl.
And all that's left is likeness
Of whom you used to know.
Made up of contradictions
Don't know where and why...
Impulsive, tired, sensuous
And permanently high.
So happy and so miserable
I moan: "Is this Life?!"
So calm and unpredictable...
Poor man, I am your wife.
Свидетельство о публикации №102040900045
)))
Синдром Стендаля 11.07.2002 15:43 Заявить о нарушении