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11 years

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  Through the darkest days, or the best of times, she is on my mind. I met her eleven years ago in Madrid… the French goddess. In eleven years, I have had other relationships, I have felt love, but she has always been there in my heart and in my mind. I have always considered her to be the one (for me). But she was engaged then, with one child, and she is married now, with two children. Her style and grace are timeless. Her elegance, I feel, is unappreciated. But perhaps that is just me imagining things. When I met her in 2013, she had been with her boyfriend for 10 years. It is now 2024, so she has been with him for 21 years. It is almost unimaginable. Each night, before I go to sleep, I think about her and often imagine that she is there beside me… or that she knocks on my door and asks if she can join me. Most mornings I wake up and imagine that she is beside me. I want to reach out and say hello and tell her that I love her. We briefly spoke last weekend, and she recommended a ...
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walk away

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  One sentence to replace all happiness: I miss the connection we had before you disappeared. We woke up that one Saturday morning and you said, ‘I feel like getting drunk.’ I suggested that you have a beer while I make breakfast. So, in that bright early morning Madrid sunshine, we had breakfast and got drunk. We laughed and joked, listened to music, kissed, had sex, watched BBC’s Sherlock Holmes.  It’s the crazy moments that I remember. The trip to Casablanca, the trip to London, the cocktail afternoons in Madrid during which we’d take hilarious selfies of ourselves with some character in the background… we’d try to create an optical illusion to make it look like it was a tiny person sitting between and we were putting a finger on their head. In the end, you said you wanted to party, not be in love.  I respected your honesty, and watched you walk away.  
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french night

  03:33am and sleep is merely a vision, a wish, a dream. A day of work lies ahead and yet, here in bed, there is no rest. There was a reconnection, a revival of a love long lost, but it was brief and flickering and, as usual, something popped up suddenly to sever the connection as rapidly as it was regained. The ship sails on, silent and alone in the night. Who would have thought that a fuck in the French night could rekindle so many feelings… from love to despair. And a forgotten one: the feeling of becoming less significant when one’s lover finds someone more interesting via a chance encounter.  
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