Biljana

Biljana was almost perfect, of course, for me,
despite all her flaws and despite her past,
that she also had.

I didn't love her, because I was in love with her.
No, I fell in love with her because I loved her.
The floppy ears, the humped nose that is ever drooling,
she wasn't exactly the fatal beauty,
for which they turn in the street,
but in my eyes she was the most beautiful,
because my love made her so.

She won me over with her words,
the way she thought,
the logic she used.
It was enough to listen to her,
so I want her...

She was special to me:
she was the only one who knew who Lilith was
and understood why I would one day
to give that name to my future daughter;
she was the only one who was not thrilled
Desanka Maksimović's "Trepidation".
and she thought, as I did,
that it is a loser's anthem;
she is the only one, after all,
from whom I had something to learn.

I was grateful to my exes that they were wrong,
because I thought I had finally met the right one.

While the other girls were learning how to seduce boys;
she was learning about Bach, Mozart, Beethoven and Liszt
and how to hate Schumann and Schubert.

Next to her, I enjoyed small joys again,
like watching movies while munching on popcorn,
discovered the magic of Chinese cuisine
and learned how to eat with chopsticks,
learned to relax and not always be rigid.

She's the only one I put on a pedestal,
and that's why she fell so low in my eyes;
I guess she's not used to such a height,
because everyone else was stepping on her...

Although she was looking for love, she did not know how to love.
Her need for attention was stronger than love.
You can't have someone who belongs to everyone.
If only she had fought for our love with the same passion,
with which she defended her lies;
if she fulfilled at least one single promise;
if she respected me by respecting herself,
because that's the only thing I asked for;
if she cleared the past,
we would build the future from healthy foundations.

Despite everything, I blame myself,
because I couldn't allow myself
to, because of her, I fall with her.
I had to be stronger, see the truth,
overcome the fear of not being without her,
if I couldn't lift her up,
so that I could continue on.

When I thought I had experienced all the pain,
she hurt me even more.
The pain is in every tear I dedicated to her,
in every morning that dawns with her in my mind,
in her pain that I caused,
in every poem I wrote for her.

Sometimes I find myself listening
to Pavarotti's performance of "Una furtiva lagrima"
and remember her delight in the same,
while staring at her last SMS that I still keep,
"You don't have to believe me, but I love you. Too much."

I regret that we are not halves of one love unit
and that I did not wait to see her most beautiful edition;
but I hope that she is happy without me,
despite the fact that I am not without her,
that we did not give up on us in vain,
that she finally managed to build a happy self.