purple scar

The sun, cut with the blade of the horizon, slowly bleed into a cool sea bath, and that blood painted the clouds with such a banal dramatic color that he wanted to light another, though the first had not yet been smoked. She was between the two fingers - the only warm thing in the cold, in a sandy jacket.

She included smoke. Slowly, as if weighing each molecule. Her cheeks barely concave, and then released a gray, fragile soul thread directly into the body of the descending heaven. Was silent. I was silent too. The Great Fine Final Final, where two loser actors try to play something that has long been gone.

My turn came. She opened a cigarette and I took her from her fingers. We barely blended. Her skin is cold. Like a stone, lying in the shade all day. The filter was already slightly wet from her lips. I included. Sharp smoke. Times. I felt the shoes gradually, the grain under the grain, and the cold seaside sand was filled. The legs are getting worse. Or maybe the soul. What a poet I am, God is.

The smoke thread hanging between us was broken. Now we each had a separate bubble melting in the wind. The sun was immersed in the end, leaving only a purple scar.

She took me out of me. The last intestine in it was like a small, dying planet. She did not squeeze her with her fingers. No. Slowly, almost ritually, she embossed it to the wet sand at the lazy wave. There was a short, angry hiss - and it all ended. The last heat died.

Then stood up.

and went. Her silhouette melted at dusk until another vertical line between the sea and the sky.

The wave, after breaking lazily, washed the small grave of the slogan. I stood. Had to go. But the legs full of cold beige looked ingrown to the ground. I stood in the dark, between the sea breathing and the silence, and suddenly I realized that I no longer knew my way back.