There are things i write that I have felt,
or am feeling, or things I have seen,
or I am seeing, about versions of love that I've
had pressed against my waist by another,
or hate that's been birthed by distance,
thus enacting death.
I have wrote of pain that subsides now,
that I can resurface by remembering with words,
or I can let it subside by tending instead to memories of joy,
of smiles shared on roof tops, seen only from the light shed by the moon,
like tears cast from your eyes, revealing more between me and the unknown,
than just darkness.
There are things that go unwritten,
and so shall they rest,
for I do not want to disturb
the unknown anymore than I have,
I leave that too you
my lovers,
reflections of myself.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem