Going to Love Myself

 
After falling in love with you, I understood—
you need no one to love you.
You need only imaginary characters, and you need to write poetry.


I won't beg for love from you like this anymore,
one day I'll simply disappear. I see nothing else to do.


When my heart grows heavy, I'll write only in my diary.
I won't come to you, won't tell you anything.
I won't waste even a second of your time anymore.


There is much sorrow written on my forehead, I can feel it.
The more I center myself around you,
the more pain awaits me...


Here's the funny thing—you won't do anything at all.
You won't cause pain, won't bring sadness.
No mistreatment or harsh behavior either.
I'll gather my own torment, in my own way.


The clock hand will touch three in a moment. I'm still not sleeping.
There's no reason to stay awake, yet I remain awake.
All this wakeful time I think of nothing but you.
I don't know what's happening, but I know I love you.


It's not that you're asking me to stay or holding me back.
Still, my heart doesn't want to leave you. What should I do?


"Okay, I won't trouble you anymore. You write, I'm leaving."
...This message has been sent to your number six times in the past hour.


I don't know what to write next. I only understand this much—
that the poet who forgets to kiss his beloved's lips
while pretending to write poetry,
has only fascination in his verse, not love.
Yes, I still want poetry, but no longer the poet.


I'm thinking I'll love someone else,
you're now secondary, or excluded altogether.


My body's armor is your affection, your love, your devotion.
Whatever lacks tenderness, this body automatically rejects—
how many more days before you understand this?


All my thoughts are crowding toward you,
I've stopped so close to you,
yet your thoughts crowd only toward poetry!


I gaze with thirsty eyes into your eyes,
while all your attention rests on the breast of a pristine white page!
Do all poets become like you? So drunk on creation they forget to love!


Then whom should I love? The poet, or his creation?
If you tell me to leave both and love only myself,
I'll say—trying to love myself, I've only returned to the poet again and again!


I have nothing left that's mine,
even my private hours of sleep have become yours!