august–september.
it is late august and i'm starting to forget your face.
i wonder what colour is your hair now (is it blonde again, like when i first met you?) ,
you've become yet another fragment of my memory,
another face i reminisce about (i still love you)
"сирени отошли, вчера отошло, и ночь с призраками, с удушьем тоже отошла... да! и этот миг отойдет, как сирени".
october 3
it's been two years since you sat with me in class
you dyed your hair again
and i can't recognise you anymore
i'm still not sure why you looked at me that way.
i still love you, tough
