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I'm fucking full you. This fullness is a foolish hope for the future which is future in the past for all its bloody part: a part of me, the ghoulish words I have said to you before you left, the last but not the least phone call: "Oops, I forgot my brolly but then the hell with it", a part of you on torn photography of us, the soaking and squally night outside, the clock that looks like to forewarn that it will be too late. Too late? It is too early to start to miss you, to despair, to wear your tights in secret, to drop dead and holding on the pearly locked gates to look for you, my love, among the sprites. * См. перевод в комментарии 1. |
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