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Scattered around the house,
I find little pieces of you.
I savour them.
Because little bits of something to hold on to
are better than a hollow room or hollow heart.
I take the items that have touched your being,
and press them up against my face.
I inhale the remainders of your essence,
and when I catch the fleeting fragrance of you
on your pillow, or the shirt that you last wore,
my heart skips a beat or two.
But no ones counting the seconds in between.
Where your heart once beat too.