Breath of a tear-drenched night

When you sometimes say—
I'm busy,
I don't tell you of my illness.

What would it be like to touch your weary body?
Will you let me love you?

If you ever give permission, then
in your eyes—I'll place my silently-made
prayers;
in the depths of your chest—I'll place my long-awaited
fragment of peace;
on your lips I'll place the breath of my tear-soaked nights.

Then
I'll leave in your memory a portion of worldly happiness;
otherwise, it will happen—the death of dreams,
the fear of touch will grow,
my long resolve will be wounded.