I won’t lie in bed, it’s overrated
I’m taking my time and drama
across the frost-bitten floor,
writhing with nothing
but a used-up table cloth
sheltered with only your memories
as they draw upon my skin, with
the toothpick we once played with,
the fire that once burned for us
mocking and abandoning the time
that once made us happy and crazy
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem