You speak your life in poetry.
Your heart broke like ice on the tin roof,
wide and running, over metal, overhead.
Then it fell, on a mission,
over the edges.
You cried up a lonely midnight,
infinite black and starless depth.
As vast as the grief you've promised yourself
until the day of your death.
I could sink my fingers
into a red seeping pain,
as visible as the breaths
that you struggle to take.
But I only want to help.
Always. Only. Better. For you, baby.
I'll gather you up sweet
with those 'things that were done.'
Call them lessons,
though I wish I could wish them away.
And I'll take care of you tenderly, my poet
Always. Only. Better. For you.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem