| *-*-*-*-* |
| sleeveless shirt. |
| and |
| greasy hair |
| dark circles |
| over |
| smearing makeup |
| consciousness |
| my |
| flooding |
| the moisture lags |
| but |
| Waves wash away |
| the sky. |
| parachutes ford |
| dreamy |
| wind |
| lazy |
| rolling |
| a harsh sun |
| under |
| blazing |
| beach |
| a sandy strip of |
| till I reach |
| finally I fall asleep |
| and |
| deadens all |
| The clatter of traffic |
| the smell. |
| in buses mostly |
| unfortunately |
| and the cold |
| and the smell |
| the light |
| that pass |
| people and the world |
| that connects |
| only thing |
| it's the |
| there's air |
| It's so lucky |
| air and paper. |
| only in |
| does exist |
| where spring really |
| there are places |
| think that |
| me |
| and it made |
| sidewalks |
| over the filthy |
| old newspapers |
| like |
| stench rolled |
| The night |
| inhaling chill. |
| still sat outside |
| all night |
| who danced |
| People |
| night clubs. |
| and |
| car shops |
| the shut kiosks |
| I passed |
| Masger street. |
| through |
| station |
| central bus |
| to the new |
| train station |
| from Azriely |
| I walked |
| thirty |
| at seven |
| was |
| the first train |
| 'cause |
| the time |
| Just to pass |
| in the morning. |
| at six |
| yesterday |
| home |
| I came back |
| and chills as |
| submerged in fogs |
| Tel Aviv |
| legs with flowers. |
| covering model's |
| newspapers |
| arrived at the |
| Summer collection |
| and legs. |
| of my arms |
| in the voids |
| float |
| a lot of butterflys |
| made me feel |
| "spring time's here!" |
| on the radio |
| the talk |
| Something about |
| my body. |
| inner walls of |
| to cover the |
| butterflies |
| as if they were |
| I chase them |
| in my emotion. |
| arouse life |
| suck me in |
| Good addictions |