I wish my hands
didn't smell of you
this morning
the dent in my bed
made by you
empty as a bowl of soup
devoured by a peasant
like his bread I am broken
before being consumed
stray thoughts of you
like dew collecting to rain down
in a torrent
ripple through my mind
I wish my pillow
didn't reek of you
the scent molding my nose
an offending sense of reality
forces it's way into me:
you are not here!
I stop with difficulty
coax my mind
to proceed in reverse
the smell taking me back
you taking me in
me taken by you
your scent
how I love it
on my hand!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Hating something we love is the most confusing thing that our heart does to us, and you sum it up well. Good write! -kate