Dear B

It was very difficult to reply to your last letter. What you are asking me to do is almost impossible and the pain of not doing it nearly unbearable. I searched for you the other day at the same café where we used to meet last year. I understand that it is difficult for you to accept that I have chosen to stay here where nothing is familiar, where people like you and me would never be. You are back there, where everything is more possible.

In my world you are still an element of perversion.

I saw your face yesterday in the middle of the black thick residue at the bottom of my coffee cup. I usually never read my own cup, but your face made me want to know more. My grandmother would have said: “Ghsmet e!” but luck happens only when you believe in it. I lost that belief when I let you cook the sarma last summer. The curse started then, I touched the food never intended to be prepared. I don’t regret anything. I just wish you could understand my sorrow.

I miss everything we used to do together. I miss the nice quite walks up on Nalbandyan st. where we tenderly held hands. I miss the nights when we rested on the stairs of the cascade watching endlessly the busy city going to sleep. Hours of reinventing lives that would never become ours, moments of intense emotions, love unspeakable. Almost telling everything, risking it all. Then stopping just in time to not vanish completely.

I am writing this letter, hoping it will never reach you, knowing that my words will disappear somehow while crossing the oceans.

Kissing gently your eyes,

L.