Don’t Come, Late Night Translation of an Old Poem for the Broken Hearted

She tells me
with a dry smile
that she’s coming on Friday

My heart leaps out of my chest
I flounder
look at all corners
breathe slowly…
between glancing at her
and staring at my feet
if she had noticed the cracks in my breath
and if she would confiscate my emotions
like she did my heart…

I feign expectancy
while reminding her of my place of residence
and I watch her laugh
then leave
following her with my eyes
staring at her crooked figure
while thinking about what to wear when she comes…

She calls
he mother is sick, she won’t be able to come
in that moment
I was swept with a massive desire to kiss her!
thanks for not coming
and especial thanks to your sick mother
send her my regards

She knows
that the closer she gets
the space between us widens
but she
despite this
still insists on stitching my torn dress
I appreciate this but
the dress no longer fits me
so take whatever is left of it and dry your sweaty brow and leave me
to look for another dress

“Did you send your mother my regards?”
“Tomorrow? No, I’m busy, maybe next week.”
I say while searching the telephone book
for a hired, cheap assassin
and think whom should I kill of her family
so she won’t come next week


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