Акварельная Апрель и Комильфо - Молоко с кофе - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

Watercolor April and Misha Komilfo.

I, like blood (like dirt) by water, break unconsciously with my contours in last year. You are my sour milk that will not come out of the heart. Why don't I have milk blood?

And the further in time, the more when immersed in the past I hear more distinctly here, outside, the steps of your ghost on the floor, somewhere there ... You are my temporary heartbeat, when you stomp the bushes of white roses on my loose crust “Somewhere there". We are no longer, but by the way it has never been. Only the headlights are burning through every new second of sleep, I am a passenger lost by you forever.

I woke up. The sun blinded the poor old man who had to listen to my garbage soul (yes we are all like that). He squinted and looked at me from above, somehow smiling childishly. You probably thought now that I am about God. You are absolutely right, only by God I call the ceiling. What difference does it make, what to believe in? The sun still warms in the morning, the sun in the morning still raises the fallen rod inside.

I woke up. It is insanely glad after pleasant dreams that they are so similar to reality (to banality), trampling pillows. The whole essence of these dreams is that the two of you accidentally meet you in some cafe where it smells of sweet and mushroom coffee, where it smells of yogurt, and pies (almost a station, washed all the platforms, I send my prose not to you. Then it lies The murdered compartment - I remove everything in a rescue, there are no more trains, wagon and platforms. All this has been bored for a long time).

I just like to put my eyelashes - I woke up. Torn lips, loud eyes, a pillow in red peas, from under the nails, like sparing needles, feathers stick out, and someone’s heart still or again in the stomach beats. But it doesn’t hurt me anymore, and never was never.

This is not the first time I am talking about the fact that I do not like you. You are just almost a year ago, you just came almost in time (the floors trampled me with a lies). Catch the next “gift”, well, I jammed a little here. I like to swallow more deeply the milk for a long time. I’m a traitor according to your texture, but you have my palm with a pencil, so that your hand does not rise about you.

I do not need anything. K/F: "Bitch Heart." Everything is clear.

And I don't understand. Why are you and me like coffee with milk? Why am I only tastier over the years in the shower, and you sour in my heart in a week. It's just that everything is complicated. Therefore, I do not bother and drink water from your tears under the tap. You know, there are so many of them that they could make a good business on them.

You cry - I'm selling. You cry - I bet. Why am I only snot lasts over the years? And all the questions fly to the ceiling again, I taught you to believe in it. I taught you to be mine. Why are you enough only for a miserable seven days? Why then you turn into a yogurt. And all of our platforms, coupe and rails smell of you. Why don't there coffee pies? And coffee with pies happens. It is as stupid as we are. Like coffee with milk calmly together. And milk with coffee in general.

I'm good with you. And you are with me, this is the most "well at all." Why do I love you more, and you no longer? And the ceiling is silent. You’ll type me somehow, tell me how our ceiling-start is there, whether he answers you.

I woke up. I have long been dreaming of anterior dreams. They are kind of double. At first I see what happened, and then what will never happen. Cool, yeah? You join, my guest from the past, to grab a tasteless popcorn from my nerves and a half -liter bottle of your tears. And we will see on the big screen of our old sheet that fascinating film in which we will never be together.