You Don’t Love Me, You Don’t Pity Me

Malika Kadyrova

You don’t love me, you don’t pity me.
Don’t you find me at least a little handsome?
You won’t look at my face but you lose control
with your hands on my shoulders.

You’re young, sensual, teeth bared;
I’m neither gentle with you nor rough.
Tell me, how many have you caressed?
How many hands have you touched? How many lips?

I know — they passed like shadows
without touching your flame.
You’ve made your home on many laps
and now you’re here on mine.

I’ll let you keep your eyes half-shut,
maybe I’m not the one you want to see.
I’m not head over heels either,
drowning in the treasured past.

Don’t call this ardour destiny,
this connection of ours quick to spark —
as easily as I fell into you,
I’ll find it just as easy to part.

And so will you, you’ll find your path,
leaving unhappy days in your wake.
Just don’t touch those who haven’t been kissed,
just don’t tempt those who haven’t been burned.

And when you’re out with another,
strolling arm-in-arm, talking about love,
maybe you’ll see me crossing the street,
and you and I will meet again.

You’ll lean into your companion
and with a tilt of your head,
you’ll whisper to me: “Good evening!”
and I’ll answer: “Good evening, miss.”

And nothing will worry my soul,
and nothing will drive it to shiver —
one who has loved won’t love again,
one who has burned won’t ignite.