Let's not rush.

The sky is a different color, cold air, small dry leaves underfoot. But we haven't spoken the word out loud.



Augustus, my love, you always start in a few breaths before I can bear. But with those small sweet apples, flowering wormwood, and nettles, the need for warm blankets for the night and two spoonfuls of sugar more than a single one.

People get sweaters and increasingly silent, sprinkling the salt of the memories, so as not to rot.

Between large stitch long knitted cardigan crammed the remnants of a summer of dreams with tangled ends: pull one to see the eight in the room suddenly a whiff of cinnamon and cognac. As the chip on Chinese porcelain Cup reminds me that perfection is impossible without a flaw, and the first cold air, strong smell of wet bark and smoke, returns to me the ground under my feet.

In August I want to get away from people without ideas, from ideas without a soul, dead meetings, ended in a draw stories. "The ultimate generosity – giving interior accumulated heat, true maturity is to be able to trust, to remember, to be afraid; in our area in the fall decided to go, the time of absence had expired," every year at this time I remember Kushina lines and look at the clock. Talking to myself here, one older than August – not scary? – and how! Yes, but who is behind I will pass over the bridge, make a fire?

All night the rain, and because sleep is particularly deep. I do a lot of walking around the city is quieter, sour smell of pig manure, sweet and crushed plums. The old-fashioned ink put crosses in hand, digging in the ground, transplanting donated lavender, and the room still for a long time it is tart, sticky, thick, at least a spoon bother me, aroma.

Had long hair and washed off the paint, and because I once stuck for a long time at the mirror, curiously examining the tread gray hair. So live, live, and anything about yourself you do not know, and the body remember, all retained.

Read any colleagues joke: "16 years: "Life is pain, and only death can bring peace." 36: "Op, pan action! I'll take two". A voice from the next room: "And that the pan is not listed there?.." And in my head float words, I do not remember from where: "you See, the thing is... it's not that we are adults now, adults now – we're it."

Don't ask if you don't want, don't need to engage in a discussion, no need to prove anything to anyone, no need to pretend that I wonder initiatives. Let's go to the market or book fair, pozalipaesh on the stars, make love to me. Let's breathe slowly. Let's not rush. August is almost over.

We have not had time.

Not time yet, and September is no good. published


Author: Olga Primachenko


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Source: gnezdo.by/blog/august-my-love/


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