But,
I don't make up excuses
for my love.
I love you
because
it's easier
than to hate you,
like
I do with the rest.
Your hair
eyes
lips,
they mean nothing
to me.
It's your words
that I'm hunting
on white pages.
The words
that
make up
your wounds.
Your pain
resembles mine.
We both
carry
love letters
in our pockets.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem