Am I already dead.
A lone star
smoldering
out there.
Fading light
sealed by these thoughts and words.
Is it too late.
I can hear the hollow sound
of rubber and shin bone
bouncing off of the pipe.
I can feel the confusing tumble
and the air against my face.
Faster than this tequila.
Less painful than writing
about her.
I broke mirrors without thought
not long ago,
and I didn't think
they made thirteenth floors
anymore.
But here I am.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem