You left the keys in the door.
They hung on for dear life,
praying that some stranger would not take them
as you took me.
You left the pot on the stove.
It whistled a happy tune,
knowing not that the day was dark.
You took your clothes
your toothbrush,
your books.
You left only hidden traces that you
were ever a part of my life.
And I wished you weren't.
You could have taken anything,
everything,
but you didn't.
Your hair still speckled the sink
from when you shaved that early morning.
My tear-stained pillows lay
on sheets that held your scent.
You should have taken everything.
But you knew what you were doing.
You took everything that didn't matter,
and left the memory of you.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I can relate to this poem and I'm sure a lot of other people can as well. This poem scolds the classic scene of a lover leaving someone, and it expresses the fact that the objects that are taken away can't erase that part of your life. This is wonderful, depressing, and powerful. Good work, and just keep expressing your feelings.