Lama-Lama

It sounds like the soundtrack to correspondence, where each “read” hits a little harder than one would like. Everything is slow, almost whispered, as if the night itself is listening to someone's patience running out. The lines flow wearily - without drama, but with that familiar feeling: when love is still there, but there is no strength left to wait.

There is no resentment in the voice, just quiet exhaustion. That tenderness that does not go away with a cry, but simply fades away, like a phone screen after the last message. And somewhere deep down, there is still a foolish hope: maybe they will remember. Maybe they will write. Although, it seems, it's time to sleep.