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| Image by Ognyan Lazarov |
In the first hours of the morning,
I still love him,
even under the thick cover of charcoal
from my broken heart.
The beautiful moments together
are stubbornly keeping their faces unchanged,
no matter how many times
I run the wash cloth over them
and wish they will fade away
and become debris in the pile of old flames.
In the first hours of the morning
my head is buried in pillows,
aching to start another day.
Maybe today I will pack my belongings
and befriend the image of a girl
wearing worn-out jeans and a tattered sweater,
walking through the streets of an unfamiliar city…
In the first hours of the morning
It's time for another travel,
another adventure,
another bite at my soul.
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