You
used
to
read
poems
just
like
this
one
short and
disjointed,
our secrets
hidden
between
the words
like
pressed
flowers
between
the
pages
of your
favourite
book.
And
now,
I
miss
you
so I write a poem about it.
If you read it,
would you know
that it was
about you?
Would
you see
that
the
hole
in
my
soul
burns
every
time
I write something
and
you're
not
there
to
read
it?
22nd February 2011
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem