Про осінь

Autumn is quietly scattering warm gold through the air, as if it wants to hide the fact that it's already cold inside. When the leaves rustle underfoot, even the loudest promises sound quieter, but there's a stubborn feeling in people, a desire to keep their word anyway, despite the storm, the rain, and their own doubts. Love here isn't the kind that shines in a shop window. It has a little sediment, a little guilt, but it's so real that it warms you more than any blanket. When hands are nearby, a train car, autumn, everything you need narrows down to two palms. Without them, the sky feels foreign, and breathing a forgotten melody that once played within.