ParaMi - Ты мне уже больше не снишься - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

I no longer dream of you anymore.

Salt taste on the lips. Bach.

See you when I will be an adult. Or I will not. Or do not see you.

Soap bubbles burst one after another. Some children cried and spared themselves and them. And others, smiling, recalled the rainbow sides.

It all does not know how to speak. Not mine, don't think.

While looking through the window at the knitted surface of scarves,

While trying to straighten my shoulders with subtitles, liters,

While clicking on Backpace,

They broke the whole buzz, the whole face, and it became easier to swallow glass than words.

Strunched buildings cut air, untied their hair, scored 02, indifferently slammed the door.

Well, they said goodbye.

Do you believe that contacts in ICQ took my whole sky, all my "does not hurt"?

Photos once were also people whose bangs quickly grew. And tears got off.

And then February, lies, mutual pain, wind from my mouth - and I was gone.

Snowflakes smelled with cigarettes. Redeled dawn.

I waited for what would be cool.

And a letter about poems.

broke off. broke.

The stations have the worst vocals, every song on the repeat to be sick.

They smeared green in the wagons, fled behind their hands, stopped, poured.

And then you lose weight for two weeks.

You are trying to remember someone in Messaga how good it was yesterday. In yesterday, at 16.

Friends do not care. They extinguish either loans or eyes - a crisis in the global economy, whether a joke.

“Nothing, dear, young still,” they only see it.

And I, pale and crying, let down the line and thought that I would no longer let go so close.

She brought her eyes and thought that he was, the end. Six times. cute.

Well, why are you so? They paid, burst into tears.

We lost their temper at the wrong stop, but found new lips.

You are happy, I'm happy.

Clothing on the shoulders.

The sheet was cold, the curtains coughed.

Forgive her to ignorance of the computer.

We are so similar with her, even the wrists are tarnished in the same spirits. Ring.

Correct books, films, facial features, Tuesdays are asked to leave things on the letter T - the temperature of you. And on Fridays no one will be attached more so that it becomes more painfully painfully from brown cinnamon eyes.

Contra contribes to the ears, on the fingers - Ctrl + Alt.

Do not think about me, about those who knew my hands.

You love cold.

not me. Only cold.

So, don't think.

I would look better if I knew how to be good.

She taught geometry.

I did not miss.

I did not download the scratches of the scratches in her arms.

I didn’t even want to forget the ceiling.

The solar plexus faded, stuck.

The sea goes to bed. back.

Meet me in the next post, in someone else's bed.

Click OK.

(With)