I remember the day you
left me. You had to
unslip from me like a glove.
Still, I clung to you
like static.
The promise, even the certainty,
of your return was not
enough to velcro-rip me
from the electricity
you left on your side
of the sheets.
My milk has gone warm on the nightstand.
My hair has matted
to the shape of your head on
the pillow.
My lipstick has dried.
It seems centuries, yet
I believe it was just last
Sunday.
I am afraid of
what I would be
if you ever left for good.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem