Think of it -
from now on our days
(one after another) will run on
eventfully. All of a sudden
my lighter won't strike, the coffee
will run out, my Parker
won't write, what was left
in the bottle, that too -
it will run out, cheers to you.
I'm giving back none of the things
you gave me. I'm running out of them
as it is: leaves, books, feathers, planets,
pages filled with your hand, even you.
Only my despair I keep for myself.

translated by Alasdair MacKinnon