Serban Raducu Bogdan (7 march 1988)
Dripping from your fingers, is the blue ink that I spilled for you, on much too many pieces of paper,
and still continue to spill, since that day, when our lips, stopped exchanging kisses,
when your hand, let go of mine, and pushed my heart away,
outside the gates of your castle of yellow leaves.
Today I still live, by feeding my dreams,
with the memories I have of you,
the few times we made love,
in your room, and then in mine, with our eyes closed,
But I see that you have strayed so deep, into his arms,
that my name, is now, like a strange word on your lips.
Not even a call to say, 'Hello, I'm fine.', and then to hung up the phone,
nothing comes from you.
You are so cruel!
I have written so many poems for you, so many.
Even when I lost my pen, I did not stop.
I bought another one, with which I write only to you now.
I don't think that there ever was a day
(since your birthday, the day when I last felt your delicate lips on mine)
to not stop and think of you like today.
It was so pleasant,
to have a girl with so many stars spilled
in her eyes and on her cheeks,
It was like a dream.
Comments about this poem (Strayed November by Serban Raducu Bogdan )
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