Sitting in a hotel room with wilted yellow roses
and no clocks on the walls,
wondering if 10 floors is enough to take me
should I choose to fall.
He sleeps soundly in the next room as I climb onto the sill,
feel the cold glass against my skin.
For a moment I wonder if he will even stir
when I open the window and let Death in.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem