Black Hole

Love always leaves in a summery way: it's like the sun is shining, but inside it's already minus five and your fingers are freezing, even if you're holding the handlebars of a bike. And you can breathe, but the air burns. Your memory slips in every detail - how she crossed the road, how her footsteps clicked quietly on the asphalt - and that's it, hello, now there's a black hole in your chest the size of a feeling that hasn't had time to cool down.

That's how it is: the world around you is alive, the birds are singing, but inside there is a neat vacuum from which even an echo does not return. Only the engine hums, the wind cuts, and it seems that if you drive faster, the hole will close. But no, it will just become a part of you. Such a black decor in your heart, matching the color of sunglasses and past love.