you are
the draft of the air conditioner
creeping beneath the comfortable warmth of my blankets.
when I wake,
I brush the cobwebs of sleep away
& carelessly let you fall
onto to the cold morning floor
along with
last night’s dreams
& yesterday’s pleasant conversations.
this morning,
you are miles away & we will not meet
-not today, not tomorrow, not next week.
yet
you will hear my voice
& I will hear yours
& we will laugh for but a brief moment-
a mere lucid interval in the madness of
work and false pleasantries.
we are but the commercial breaks in each other’s lives
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem