In all my books
I made myself
run after you,
smell your footprints
and sprint
forward
blind
tireless
like the dark creature
you made me think I was,
always kept spying on you
and playing in my mind
the last words you ever spoke to me
that day, over the telephone.
I still don't know why you called.
Reality, it was something I had to do. I knew
I will someday lose my soul. I was
counting on that, on you to take it apart.
For once I wanted
to look back and see
your face wanting me
tormented,
to feel your stare
in the back of my neck
and sprint even faster
even farther.
I knew
it was the only way
I could win
in this simple world.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem