i keep it in one of the pages of my
favorite book, a love story that is never
finished, i keep on reading it till the
wee hours, like a dream cut from the sound
of the heavy rain, cats and dogs,
i keep it there and kiss it all night long
and when i sleep i place it on top of my chest
my heart beating like a drum to a dream:
making love with you is a routine and i
have not heard about my heart complaining
about a deprivation, no more, no more,
there is this phenomenon of being fed-up,
routine that makes a familiarity and arrives
at the conclusion of forgiving and forgetting.
i look at old letters. Your picture in b & w
the photograph of you looks like an old stamp
of a letter that i have no plan sending to you
anymore. Got these tired hands. this scissor
this matchstick, this trash can, and the final
solution. This is the end of pain.
The dispositive portion. No costs.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem