The rugose skin has helped me see better.
And every time, as now, I close my eyes,
The dreams become less vivid of your tender,
And I can see behind those sweet-old lies.
The music gets me going; I wonder where it leads.
I still keep those damn letters up my sleeve,
And notes that kept me warm are burnt by your own words.
They don't tell any stories anymore.
Salient pace, turned to a race,
Keeps me moving still and in time.
I invented a machine that would make me old and real;
You, I left as young and past behind.
Someday, I'll sit by the river
Where all the promises were made.
And as I close my eyes, I won't make a sound,
Because there won’t be a flicker
Of my thoughts trailing away
To the day I said "I want you" in reply.
The time machine
© Copyright: Вера Эра, 2025
Свидетельство о публикации №125021909168
Свидетельство о публикации №125021909168
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