Read this, these are the names of the things you
left - me, books, your smell filling
the room; half the dreams and twice
the pain, kisses all over my body
like deep cuts which will
never heal; and more books, loss,
the key of a house that was never
ours, a blue flannel dressing gown
I'm wearing as I write this list:

books, laughter I can't put away,
and rage - a pot of orchids you loved
so much without my knowing why and I
haven't watered since; and
books, the bed unmade for so long,

a letter on your pillow and so much
sorrow, so much loneliness; and in a drawer
two tickets for a romantic film you
didn't watch with me, and more books, and also
a discoloured old shirt I wear for sleeping
to be close to you; and every-

where, books, so many books, so many
words you never said before the letter
you wrote that morning, and me,

me still believing you'll be back, you will
be back, if even only for your books.

Translated by Ana Hudson with Gabriel Gbadamosi