it’s him,
whose hand i hold
in the streets at night
at the fifth avenue
where lovers whisper -
not yours.

it’s him,
whose face i wake up to,
lips curved every time
i catch him watching me sleep,
and kissed my forehead afterwards -
not yours.

it’s him,
whose arms are present,
whenever i need them,
when all the ghosts from the past
come and haunt me at night
or even in the morning -
not yours.

it’s him,
whose fingers draw a map
on my skin to remember
how it feels on the tip of his fingers
when we’re apart -
not yours.

it’s him,
whose life im gonna spend with,
who longed for my love,
and who needs to be loved -
not yours.

im living in a pradise,
but he who truly deserves it,
lives in hell,
because i can feel the butterflies
dancing in my stomach and chest
and my heart still speaks thousands and
millions of languages that i cant understand when i meet

you,
whose hand I should be holding,
whose face i should be waking up to,
lips that kisses my forehead,
whose arms that wrapped my body
when im in terror of my past and future,
drawing a map with his fingers on my skin
to avoid homesickness,
whose life i should be spending with
and love endlessly.

you-
not him.