'I thought
writing poetry
will make me
happy
instead
it made me miss
you more…
you're like
a last drop
of wine
in my empty cup
touching with my finger…
savoring
in my tongue
its bitterness
wishing your taste
will lasts
and stay forever…
for my letters
and the wound
in my pen
never heals
with you...
the more I write
the more I drink.'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Very hilarious situation with and without the muse nicely re-created. Loved reading it. Thanks. with you... / the more I write / the more I drink.