Текст песни Para-mi - Пунктиры

interruptions of dim lamps in subway cars and my agony. but
the beat is not a bandage, sorry, and it still hurts
evening on the thin shoulders of the street, hysterical headlights, and words like
sheets torn out in a hurry, fly and fly in the wind from a beautiful mouth, but that's just,
you just wait, wait, listen, but you go to the bars again,
alone, and everyone around is so happy, in pairs, hips,
grams, grass and dram, interruptions of dim lamps, everything got enough,
transcription of trance and hands injured, in the cold ribs of the bath, no one was left,
who would understand, raise, but just drink and hug, take away from the marble city,
unmerald Peter, where it is so difficult for me to be iron,
screwed up in the morning without strong coffee, without fingers, unlearned in time with yours,
and in every name, in every page unbearable, I want to shrink in your shirt,
but every night I remember the apartment on the outskirts of Kupchino, where it was so scary
even just disperse for five minutes into the room and the kitchen, where they cooked together
the first dinner, and they took care of their world from everyone, and it was so good, without these texts,
poems ripped open on the aorta, it was, and they loved it - gently, quietly, so that no one
did not hear, except for the two of us. but crushed into trash wrists, and points for some reason at the beginning,
without hunger grief, don't touch me, don't touch me,
she didn't scream, she didn't beat, she only bit her beautiful lips quietly, the reasons, the piers were long.
but the evening falls flat, and the phone smolders in silence, as if choking,
spines, heels, broken roads, the "you" cut in the throat,
in the center is empty, the palace is as quiet as water, tell the messengers that there is no more communication,
no ligaments, no place.
it's pointless to remember knots and change something, I'm talking about you with dotted lines,
pretexts, impotent suffixes, minivans of veins collide into one huge
catastrophe, not a single living feeling remains in me, pain of two years
fits into one stanza, interruptions, you hear me bend here with my verses,
with someone else in someone else's shirt I bend to the music of ours, and you go to bars with your hands
under someone's dress, colored, narrow, and our scratches did not heal on your hands,
she sleeps next to you, but you are not, sad near the battery, you smoke, and her blue eyes glare into her memory
and you may not remember me already, and, I know, it will not get worse. but I'm dying somewhere in the heart muscle
I quiet down with music from cars, in the crowds and thousands of your lovely girls,
in the smile of everyone who meets and not meets,
minutes on the mute,
I'm tired and became the last shaking transitions
don't touch me, don't touch, don't touch me, don't touch.
not a fairy tale about love - about zero balance, about unbearable
two smoky loneliness in the same room,
but not that I am, not that I am. they're just not you. all people are not you.
now we embrace each new "beloved"
discharges of emptiness, emptiness, electrical emptiness.