Not about the Bashny.Net

< Misha Campfires



You again pulls smoke, not talk about it.
Do your legs lying on the floor coat.
You step over him casually,
Gently taste tasting apartments circus tent.

At the port of lipstick taste, vinegar burns
The sweet smell of tea and a sharp - musk,
The smell of winter, sweat and flabby muscles.
You forgive the mess in advance, like a holy homunculus.

I cheek drop out of the window, the night streets,
For me, in this world no one is worried.
You follow me, reflection, mixed with a small room - with air, light, with a cry, which neighbor rages.