Текст песни Акварельная Апрель и Комильфо - Молоко с кофе

Watercolor April and Misha Comilfo.

I, like blood (like mud) on water, unconsciously spread out in my contours in last year's you. You are my sour milk that will never come out of my heart. Why isn't my blood milk?
And the farther in time, the more, when immersed in the past, I can hear more clearly here, outside, the steps of your ghost on the floor, somewhere there ... You are my temporary heartbeat when you stomp bushes of white roses on the loose crust of my “somewhere there". We are not sick already, but by the way, it never was. Only the headlights burn right through every new second of sleep, I am a passenger you have lost forever.
I woke up. The sun blinded the poor old man who had to listen to my garbage soul (yes we are all like that). He squinted and looked at me from above, somehow smiling like a child. You probably thought now that I was about God. You are absolutely right, only God I call the ceiling. What difference does it make what to believe? The sun is still warm in the morning, the sun in the morning still raises the fallen rod inside.
I woke up. Insanely glad after pleasant dreams that are so similar to reality (to banality) to stomp on pillows. The whole point of these dreams is that I accidentally meet you two in some cafe, where it smells of bittersweet coffee, where it smells of yogurt, and pies (Almost the station, all the platforms have been washed, I send my prose not to you. Then lies killed compartment - I delete everything recklessly, there are no more trains, carriages and platforms. All this has become boring for a long time).
I just love putting on my eyelashes - I woke up. Torn lips, black eyes, a pillow with red polka dots, feathers stick out from under the nails like sharp needles, and someone's heart is still beating in the stomach or again. And it doesn't hurt me anymore, and it never happened.
This is not the first time I have said that I do not love you. You just almost a year ago, you just came almost on time (you trampled the floors with lies). Catch another "gift", but I got a little jammed here. I like to swallow more and more deeply sour milk. I am a traitor by my texture, but you pierce my palm with a pencil, so that your hand does not rise up about you.
I do not need anything. K / f: "Bitch's heart". Everything is clear.

But I don't understand. Why are you and me like coffee with milk? Why over the years I only taste better in my soul, and you turn sour in a week in my heart. It's just complicated. Therefore, I do not bother and drink water from the tap of your tears. You know, there are so many of them that they could make a good business.
You cry - I sell. You cry - I betray. Why am I just snot over the years? And all the questions again fly to the ceiling, I taught you to believe in him. I taught you to be mine. Why are you only enough for a miserable seven days? Why then do you turn into yogurt. And all our platforms, coupes and rails smell like you. Why are there no coffee pies? And there is coffee with pies. This is as stupid as we are. Like coffee with milk together calmly. And milk with coffee, well, nothing at all.
I'm fine with you. And you are with me, this is the "well, nothing at all." Why do I love you more, and you no longer have me? And the ceiling is silent. You dial me somehow, tell me how our old ceiling is there, if he answers you.
I woke up. I've had anti-prophetic dreams for a long time. They are kind of double. First, I see what was, and then what will never be. Cool, yeah? You join me, my guest from the past, grab a tasteless popcorn from my nerves and a half-liter bottle of your tears. And we will see on the big screen of our old sheet that fascinating film in which we will never be together again.