As a young man, I did that thing,
those things,
that woo the woman.
I did that, and still
my solitude
and my general state of blubberiness
pretends I didn't.
I brought flowers and candy
and walked on the beach
and whispered sweet nothings
and got her pregnant.
I did all that!
I don't remember much about it,
if I'm honest.
I've lost a great many things,
but I lost the good memories very early.
The joy went far easier than it should have,
or became twisted into something wrong.
Empty picture frames.
Sharpie face.
Still I know I made someone love me once.
I hold my sadness as proof.
I did all that stuff,
and all the stuff that came after.
My education in suffering,
I earned that!
But no one cares about the old stuff.
Unless they do, and then I'm even worse off.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem