My heart has run away.
I think you stole it.
There’s some raw hole in my chest that
I can’t seem to mend,
Enervated by the doubt that lurks within this chasm.
Does your remorse cut as deeply as my pain?
My memory has faded, blanched like antique photographs.
Only this indentation in the pillow,
The shirts redolent with your scent in the closet,
The lipstick you gave me smeared on the mirrors,
Are tickets to the place and time when we loved.
A masque of red death, sorrow, regret
Is playing some profound waltz in my skull.
This charade seems never-ending, but all the seats have gone.
This music cannot speak to me; I am deaf without your voice.
I was only looking for somebody to love me—
I thought I found you.
But now it seems
You were never really there at all.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem