En boucle

Everything is rushing somewhere - people, streets, thoughts. Cigarette smoke clings to my eyelashes, and somewhere between inhaling and exhaling, the word ‘you’ slips in. It's funny: this story seems to have been rewritten a thousand times, but my hand still reaches for the beginning - what if this time the ending is different? Between the lines - quarrels, tenderness, and that very ‘I'm sorry’ that is spoken not with the lips, but with a pause. In the voice - fatigue and warmth, as if the heart has simply decided to exhale: yes, it was difficult, but let's at least hug each other properly.