Let me write you a love letter

We label places, in our minds we play this game of association to remember its scents, flavours, textures, feelings. A city could be a stop over, a place where we treaded as a passer by and somehow managed to leave trivial cues in the crevices of our subconscious. That’s given. But sometimes it could lacerate a lasting wound with a scar that opens up to bleed each time we get reminded of how that place pounded us against the wall until we scream with blasphemous antiphony.

I have that one place, and it all began as an innocent attempt to play make-believes, and to fool my senses that I live the dreamy images of how I wanted it to look and how books made us believe it should be–and so we drink to attenuate logic, and amp up everything that don’t make sense.

The blurred lights of street lamps, the damp stone claddings, the sound of our shoes stomping the inclined paves ebbs in a whirly haze as we flung back to our penthouse. We opened the cheap bottle from the grocery, the cork popped and the world fell silent. There’s the wooden door, oh the city sparkles, the purplish sky, the swish on crystal glass, my heartbeats, your warm hands–I don’t know which one made me the happiest.

What could go wrong with all this staged infatuation?

We left the city, we moved on to the next, you moved on with your life, and there I was, left prematurely broken.

Now everything about that city were marked with an indelible memory of you. I have had good bottles before, got completely smashed so many times, and woke up the next afternoon in total wreckage. This happened in this very same order over and again but after this city happened, every gulp more soothing than ever, getting smashed felt like an augmented dream, waking up the following afternoon has never been so glorious.

Up to this day, years later, that memory is still a rush of blur that made me clasp my chest each time the wound reopens to bleed. They say you can select your thoughts like you select you clothes. Well, damn it! You seemed to be that convenient old shirt, that staple in my drawer, and damn me! I love sleeping in you and I could not get over it.

Like you, the city is miles away from where I am, an arm stretch is just empty longing and hopeful prayer is no more than a wishful plea.

Like you, I will never get tired of loving that city even just from afar…

.

P