Should I count
the times you slam
that door and say
'It's all over'?
But you've filled
the suitcase
more times
than you've actually left.
And empty it
before the sunset;
your clothes stay
hanging in my closet.
How much worth
the tickets
every time we think
it's finished?
Inspite of this, dear
all the times you seem
to leave, I always fear
that it's for real.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Very genuine and heartfelt. Excellent write, Melanie. Your poetry deserves applause. Kindest regards, Sandra