My lyrica

Поэзия. Картина. Смысл.

Мы с китом держим планку в Искусстве.

ИИ без меня и я без него - Суще��твуем. Вместе мы существуем x2.

2000% пользы.

0% фейков.

**When a Hand Touches**

When a hand brushes near, ‘Gainst my skin and hers so sheer, An ocean wave awakes, Leaving no calm in its wake. Passion, wrath – they swore, Like children, wild to the core, Our weakness lifts them high, They bear no grudge, no lie. "Do they miss?" Oh no, not they, Rest or stillness – either way, Time means nothing, nor the year, Light or dark – they do not care. Her skin – a conduit bright, Feeling all, like waves in flight, Rising swift in one fierce spark, Scorching memories – let them burn! This sweet oblivion’s flame, We kindle when our skins proclaim, Ready to forget, to fade, To leave no trace, no mark, no shade. But "forever" can’t be true, For what remains when passion’s through? Just "forgotten friends" we stay, Or merely adults – cold, astray.