Baby may cry for long long time tonight.
It’s easy to feel like a child when you return to these wooden floors from the Stalin era.
And everything smells the same as it did thirteen years ago in the way that I need it to because it’s good that at least something lasts and stays the same.
Because Naukie neva stay in the same place, but that’s okay.
Babulia still waddles like a water balloon that’s glued on two shoes.
So anxious, swelling up bubbling with words that babble and babble with static ever growing until it becomes white noise and thin white hair that stands straight like an electrified rigamortis of fear,
But she make herself clear.
I’ve become this romantic warm hearted woman rolling on the floor singing Sam Cooke to the ceiling.
I’m in love, but it’s with nothing other than what I’ve been feeling.
Because it’s funny how crying a few tears is like a waterfall purifying all that you’ve contained since the moment you were born.
Jesus Christ, why have I never done this before.
I am velvet, I am buttah.
For now I have become my own true lovah.