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- I do not love you, - these words have pierced heart, turning out sharp edges of an interior, transforming them in forcemeat.
- I do not love you, - the simple six syllables, only twelve letters which kill us.
- I do not love you, - there is nothing more terribly when they are said by the favourite person. For the sake of what you live for the sake of which you do everyone for the sake of which it is capable even to die.
- I do not love you, - in opinion of darkens. First peripheral sight is disconnected: dark veil shrouds all around, leaving small space. Then flickering, poured grey points close and the remained site. Darkly completely. You feel only the tears, a terrible pain in a breast, compressing lungs. You squeezes and you try to borrow as small as possible places in this world, to be covered from these words.
- I do not love you, - your wings which closed you and favourite in difficult minute, start to be showered by already turned yellow feathers, as if November trees under an impulse of an autumn wind. The penetrating cold passes through a body, freezing soul. Two shoots covered by an easy down already stick out of a back only, but also it withers from words.
- I do not love you, - letters a squealing saw stick into the rests of wings.
Blood flows down on a back, washing off feathers.
- I do not love you, - wings are not present more. Pains already are not present also a word have remained only words. A set of sounds which any more do not cause sufferings, do not leave even traces.
Wounds were tightened. Time treats …
Time treats even the most terrible wounds. All passes, even long winter. The spring all equally will come, kindling an ice in a soul. You embrace the favourite, most dear person, and snow-white wings clasp it. Wings always grow.
- I love you ...