(based on a much older, much shorter, much cheesier, much dumber poem)
I wrote a story.
And you were in it.
And it was damn good.
And I was proud of it.
And I called you one night.
And it wasn't really night.
And it wasn't really me.
And you weren't really you.
And you asked to hear it (my story) .
And I read to you over the telephone, under the covers, from a laptop screen that almost smelled like a fresh ribbon and oiled pieces of iron pressed with a crisp alphabet.
And you
wondered
why you died in the end.
And I said-
But the truth is that we all die in the end.
you just lived long enough
to be mentioned.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem