There will be a time, I know,
When you will become the ghost you are meant to be.
You will smile one last time, steady your dark eyes in mine,
You will flick your hair and lie.
There will be a time when I will no longer remember
What is was you meant to me,
Or why I longed for your smell of cigarettes and deodrant,
Or why the fabric of your jumper felt softer than down.
There will be a time, perhaps, when my heart will heal,
Yes, and the bruise will just be scar,
Invented by your hands and your words.
But that time will not come today,
And today I will wonder
Why my hands are cold?
Why the rain is weeping against the glass,
With you on the other side?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem