Azure Mischief

I’d so let all this clear summer sky, along with its swallows, winds and clouds, beneath your pelt: the birds chirp as they fly, as if they really touch someone’s raw nerves, and their chirps, each one, are sweet impulses the touched nerves respond with. Swallows in your blood. Maybe they already are in you and I only now managed to guess it.

I'll show your entire self to you entirely, just give me time: who ever told you just how handsome you are.
No one. Had. Ever. Kissed you. In the muzzle. Like that.
Between your eyes. On your lips. Nuzzling against your blue whiskers.

Let’s pretend, says the dvorovoi, that the summer had been sleeping inside me all this time — I’d been sheltering and warming it, there was enough room for it and still is, check it yourself if you want to. Then he gently runs through my hair with his hand, like the summer wind: go ahead, lay your head on the fluffy warm fur.

Okay, I agree. There’s a small glk heard under his fur, like from a pebble thrown into a river; and here is the river itself, probably warmed by the sun; and here comes the wind: his breath, raising waves, rocking to sleep.

I remember the time you got teased with a cookbook, and I was just dying – from either sympathy, or tenderness and pride for you. My beloved spirit boy, just standing there, not even able to get his eye off the pages (in fact beautiful and rich), and only gulping hungrily. And I’m only loving you more, and even seem to see these thin sticky “strings" of drool in the corners of your mouth — and love even them, Lord, what's wrong with me, what are you doing to me, Zeliboba.

You’re creating me.
Creating from the very beginning, and re-creating all over.
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