I search for things to cloud my mind,
to maintain a dulling of the pain.
The suffering is drowning,
but the sense of self is ever-growing.
The air smells sweeter one layer up.
We drink in different moons:
his tall stature, my petite frame.
How can I go on loving—when the loving is not returned?
Restraint is power, he has the upper hand.
Keeps it in his back-pocket
where the luck is secure.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem