There are stupid things I'd like to do
As if they'd fix me missing you
Or somehow bring you close again
Like stealing your sweater to smell it,
Taking back my gift to sell it,
Or buying you the longed-for pen.

I'm afraid we'll never hug goodbye,
Or if we do, that I will cry
Since I know I must do it briefly
While longing to bury my face
And regretting the empty space
That separates us now.

I wasn't happy then, so how
Am I still missing you now,
And always filled with sorrow?
Although I'm filled with contempt,
From pining I'm still not exempt,
And wish to be yours tomorrow.