I faced demise too many times,
By waiting for phone calls,
For letters,
A turn on the knob,
A throbbing heat from a pinning body,
A soft breath of comfort,
But they never came,
And so I faced the ceiling,
The fissures of the wall,
The clustered prominences of aches
On the headboard,
And whispering voices in the dark
While she chattered with men,
And so I did, only to find that they were shabby,
And she found out that they were better –
That, I find hard to believe.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem