The Shirt

I still sleep next to your shirt
though it only offers a very fragile protection during the night
when my worst fears are freed from the authority of my self-control
because even though your scent is still lingering on it,
even though it symbolizes all of that
what you physically no longer are to me,
its power is in my own self-denial
denial state of mind
that keeps my doubts as distant as possible, insane

The phone rings, it is you
I know even though I don't look at the name on the screen
This is your moment, reserved only for you
and your voice that arrives through the air ever so faithful
Even though I notice already from the tone, that you are not interested in this at all
I still listen to the end and pour out everything
that I wrote down to a list as if making a speech
Perhaps if I tell about my loneliness word by word
you can no longer deny me

The mattress still has a dent from the arch of your back
and the bones shining through your skin
In its hollows I can huddle up when my faith in something better falters
and amongst the stains I can cry my tears
once your shirt can no longer absorb them
My self-control is not what it used to be,
it has been consumed by sleepless nights
And ever fewer are the moments
when I can display the theatrical sobs
Self-pity is still my guest,
it has adopted your place now that you gave it away
even though I can't throw away your belongings,
can't abandon your worn-out shirt
It is the only proof that you once cared enough
to keep me close

Translated by Sith Fisto.