It was like
a joke
gone wrong
or a forgotten ending.
“Knock knock! ”
said the door.
“Who’s there? ”
I answered.
It was you
or rather
the memory of you.
It just pushed
its way in
asking how I was
getting on
now that you were
gone.
“Fine! ”
(I lied)
“Fine! ”
The memory of you
...smiled.
It did everything
you used to do
set in your favorite chair
arms covering
your breasts
crossed heels
covering your sex
naked &
at the same time not
scattered underwear
everywhere
that I as usual
picked up
answering from
the darkened bedroom
in your bedroom voice
“I’m
in here! ”
Shouted from the loo
for a new loo roll
as if you were
a programmed hologram
from the deck of
the Starship Enterprise.
Highly illogical.
The memory of you
did everything
you do
except be
you
for real.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The Ghost of one Who isn't there... The air, filled with Perfumed hair... The silence... For no one is there... But me... Alone there.