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He puts her hands under her dress unceremoniously, and she burns for him by a feerver in the November slush of roofs.

He forgot for a long time, which means to be young and to the brain of bones in love.

He rakes her, defenseless, small, in an armful, and in her ear the rustle of the wind: "You are my baby."

He, you know, has such autumn tenderness, cold palms and hunger on her bird, ton -sized wrists.

He was waiting for everything. Here, it will appear, the one that in the end not only the body will touch, but ran into, looked at this timid, semi-disinfecting happiness.

He is ashamed, he is hiding something behind this Playboy-shell, real, gentle, as if to a kitten selected among winter ...

It imagines it with the last love, then just an absurd fate by a mistake, sees in it either Lilith or a simple confused child.

In the morning, when she pokes her shoulders with a warm nose, he hugs her without looking, and thinks about another, the one who did not love.

He recalls the banal phrase that the merciful time flies and heals.

It only hurts inside as if someone had tied the codes of the veins in the damn mountains.

He does not love her with a ridiculous deer nor a wise beautiful maid: she can’t become like that to heal these scars and embraced evil wounds.

Where to compete with a girl with Snezhnoy, her mother is so, the queen? Is that in a fairy tale, but he’s not a kai, just a sick and strange boy.

She smells tenderness in him, and sees how she hides her eyes from her, and the cold makes her way under the sweater and touches the skin between the shoulder blades.

And, also, she smells that unknown and not forgotten, eternal hunger.

He lowers his eyelashes with him and holds himself by the shoulders from sorrowful thoughts,

And it also happens that he hugs her at night, clinging, and climbing like a cat to the mistress.

And then she walks stupid for weeks, spite of dislike and not -wrapping, smiling, sleeps alone in his old T -shirt, secretly carried away from the house.

With him, she is a queen, Juliet, a mermaid and a shuttered firebird. To fall asleep next to him - like on a rainbow, but barefoot, smiling at the sky.

They hold hands, joke, silent and walk at night when they do not sleep. And, as children, they are already awaiting prickly, fresh, forever magical first snow.

She has a faith, childishly naive, eternal, terrible faith, of those that outward, if, suddenly, take away, and let go for a walk alone.

Not history, right, they have, but a play in Shakespeare's style, and maybe Moliere ...

Well, then what?

How do I know? You see, there are three points in the text ...

Little Lo