English Engelska الإنجليزيّة
Bad weather. Broken network cable. Gravel in the air and in my head. It has been three years. I imagine you sitting on my bed. You stroke my hair and I beg: Say that I will not go your way. Silence because you never lie. I say that I regret like hell, all I said and what I never did. You whisper that what you loved in life was me and to write. So do not turn this poem into sentimental crap. And my tear-dry face hurts from laughter.