автор: eurochild

The Moon being night lamp,
my eyes are a type writer.

A night of tousled hair,
I remember,
in arms
of bloodstained meteors,
was lingering for other place
and different times.

Without speaking,
just with glance,
you negligently
stir the ice
between us.
Their wedgie edges
stinging our eyes.

A time passed
since I don’t float
in your thoughts.
Long ago
I dreaming stopped
with your dreams.
And phone piercing
is not desired.
I am at ease –
21 grams weightless.

There was a time
when you were night light,
your eyes being
typing keys.