Обаятельна

The air seems to tremble from the simple "be with me" - so naive that it becomes a little poignant. It seems like nothing special: there's no voice, no metaphors, just a request, almost a whisper. But in that whisper is all the awkwardness of wanting to please so much that even the air around you starts to blush. The warmth from someone else's hands is still lingering on my skin, my hair is sticking to my temples, and inside, everything is teetering on the edge - between tenderness and confusion. My words are jumbled, my gaze drops to the floor, and I wish they wouldn't notice how my hands are trembling. This kind of music sounds like it's coming not from speakers, but from that very place between "still hoping" and "already letting go."