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.
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