Feel them. Feel her fingers.
You do love me don't you?
she'd say. Yes, sure I do,
you'd reply. But the words
were not touching home;
not so much a lie as a sad
misunderstanding of their
meaning. She’d lift your arm
behind your back in some
kind of female arm lock.
You’d laugh and repeat,
yes, of course I love you,
of course I do. Her spirit may
rest now years after the sudden
death. At night if you are silent,
you can hear her breath.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem