the inbetween
where my body isnt yours
and my own feelings are a deception
belonging to someone else entirely

they are but a mere consequence of you
laughing unreservedly
having a smoke
sitting on my balcony
loving someone else

forgetting how your voice sounds
(like waves crashing and fire crackling)
and how your touch feels
(like sunny winter mornings)
is not the hardest part

rediscovering smithereens of myself
like restoring a painting
takes wanting to start anew

the inbetween
is worse than losing you

Mia Pavković

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