A: Please leave with me
B: You know I can’t
A: But why?
B: Because we both know that you don’t mean it. Because we both know that I can’t love you more than I miss you. Because we both know that you can’t love me any more and I don’t want to love you any less.
Edinburgh, September 15, 2014
What if I told you I’m not coming back?
Sending you smile and smell of the rain,
Perth, December 29, 2013
Hope that you’re fine. I’m in Perth, spending my second summer this year. I know, as much as you know, that one summer per year is usually enough. Somehow this year, I need another summer to think about those summers I drowned on disappointment; to send you what I hope would be my last one way postcard.
Andalusia, ask me again how I feel about this summer. I will give you my favorite answer I’ve been annually telling you since I left, “I am in love, again. With another woman.” But we both know the ending as much as we know the beginning: this woman is not you. I repeat it each year that now I hate July and the beach and the sun and how I hope that I see myself in your eyes. Now you’re getting married, I will hate more yet I will hate less, I promise.
Andalusia, I’m sorry. I really am. I wish you a never ending happy adventure.
Your The Man Who Falls in and out of Love Every Summer