Dec 22, 2012, 11:44 AM

Аз, грешната 

  Poetry » Love
5.0 / 8
1133 0 4

Той проплака,
докато се любехме
снощи.
Не за мен,
за нея проплака.
Както
восъчна свещ,
към пламък поднесена,
се извива,
преди да покапе.

А очите му
се затвориха.
За молитва ли?
Да му простиш, Господи,
изневярата?

И тогава

аз, грешната,
завих
със косите си
спомените
в душата му.

© Павлина Гатева All rights reserved.

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