Ex

As if the morning is in no hurry to begin, everything around breathes the same air as the night, only quieter. Between the words there remain traces of previous conversations, those where love was still a medicine and not a habit. It seems that if you say anything louder than a whisper, the entire fragile world built from “just a little more” and “let’s do it later” will scatter.

The air smells of smoke and rain, and my thoughts are nostalgic for those moments when it seemed that the feeling would save me. But now it’s more like a slight trembling, like that very grain of hail that falls on the palm and melts before you have time to understand whether it hurts. And yet in this icy tenderness there is life: beautiful, clumsy, stubborn.