Mood

It smells like a dusty summer and unfinished messages. That same story where ‘she already has a new one,’ but the habit of turning the wrong way is even stronger. Everything seems to be over, but the old song is still spinning in my head, like a worn-out record where the scratches sound louder than the melody.

He seems to be joking, but every sentence is like salt on a fresh wound. Sarcasm instead of tenderness, coldness instead of answers. Bees, honey, ‘bad mood’ - everything is mixed together in one glass, where sweet and bitter can no longer be distinguished. And while she dances with the new, somewhere there is still the echo of the old nous, which no one has ever deleted.