To be sick with love, to look mysteriously – thank you, everyone has been vaccinated for a long time. We have heart failure, lack of opium in the blood.
Come on, doctor, give us a spicy, pour a healing one with ice. No, adults are not sick with love, love is about this, and we are about that. About how stuffy it is in the evening, how the usual floors are pressed, and there is no love, and there is nothing to save, but life boils in the clavicular wreath. About how the silver voice rings, she laughs – go crazy, wandering the streets, trees, not returning to their homes. About how firmly, in one touch, you always merge with her in the night.
We know all the diagnoses ourselves, but thank you, doctor, that you are silent. To be sick with love is empty, childish, you cough with verses, a little sleep.
We have such a sharp tenderness with her, the hours until the meeting knock on the temple.
Come on, doctor, leave the theory, forget the meaningless Latin. Sick of love, go down in history, burn in agony and cool off. Love rages feverishly, its end is sudden.
We have heart failure.
Two hearts are not enough for us.
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