A black polka dotted couch
In a red room;
And white stripes paint the walls
From your eyelids to mine
That was a truth that neither of us could erase;
A thin line—a silver line divides
A silver line that we drew
Runs deep and cuts sharp
Slicing that black old couch in two...
I make my way across the room
Footsteps lay in stone
Now I shall lie in the bed I’ve laid
Scabs fall from my skin
And big black spiders have woven webs round the bats that nest,
tangled in my hair
I am absolved;
Yet still it is absolution that I seek—atonement
So I sit on my end of the couch
As you sit on yours
And the walls about us fading into shades of grey;
Now white stripes run from your fingertips to mine...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem