In her shoes, to her songs

Caetano Barsoteli

His heart aches with every passing day; his nights grow ever busier with cries. Her empty spot his solitude replays; her belongings left where her absence lies. Riveted, he reaches for her clothes, fetish driven, or as a way to keep her near. He dons her hat and shirt, her rings and hose, and pretends she’s standing right here. His guise, her looks; his figure, her curves, and for a moment, his ache starts to wane. To be her very being, this he yearns, to find himself in her form, in her name. At last, he dances in her shoes, to her songs. She’s still deceased, but nothing else is wrong.

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