i wrote this poem in english because that's the way it came to me while i was washing my face about twelve minutes ago.

the more oblivious part of my brain 
still wants to tell you i love you
except that i don't.
i think?

no.

yes, i still mean you when i say "home"
i want to go home while i'm sitting here
in my own living room, on my own sofa
drinking a glass of wine after midnight
alone.

home is where your heart is -
mine is buried six feet under 
each and every one of your thoughts
at least i stupidly hope that it's still somewhere in there.

naïve.

maybe it was never there
we were both so good at acting
i think in the end even i believed 
we were in love.