Olga Bubich - [in love with people]
Photography
I will be 14, you - whatever.
Your knees will smell like the sea at dawn: in their cups there will be kisses luxuriating like sacrificial butterflies; slipped off stockings, meditating on the new year yawned away under the couch, almost having left the heels enough warmed, hugged up to the sweetness. You will put back a cup of tea, already cold, bored, gulped by the fog, to the company of candles on the window-sill, heavily breathing, as if after one more summer fire – these were us, playing confessions, playing the truth, playing the game of reality, trying to give the appropriate wording to the under-skinned, that starts pulsating the room, the window and even slightly the sea, when our palms are magnetized towards each other from the distance of the last line.
Words – like the chess rooks at untimely castle – how can I lock in the shadows of your eyelashes with adjectives, all the interjections puff away like sugar powder from the pebbles of your pupils in the depths of the tea cave reflections, adverbs lose the gist of speech by only touching a lazy string of your hair, caressed by the lover of the wind.
We will have the sense and no plans.
You will not be afraid of promises
and will never tell me lies.
I will have no reasons to cry you.
I will be 14, you - whatever.