New York City, July, 1999

Dearest Lora,

I'm afraid it's time to say good-bye.

I can still remember the day we met, your sparkling blue eyes looking at me from afar, your red silken dress clung to your body, your hair cascading down bare shoulders. I was fascinated, enchanted, mesmerized.

We talked, we laughed, and we lied about our lives, our experiences, and dreams. We made up stories of glory and passionate lovers, leaving behind the anxiety that permeates first encounters. Maybe it all happened like that because we never thought we would meet, because we never believed we could be together. Maybe it was just because there was nothing to shelter us from ourselves that night but the sky.

We had good times, dear Lora. We raised our hearts to unimaginable heights, we explored our souls, discovered our bodies in all so many ways: The touch of your fingers on my naked body, the softness of your skin, the accelerated beat of your heart, the wetness and tenderness of your lips, the sweet smell of your pillow in the morning. How can I forget that? How can I possibly, ever forget that?

I won't.

I will let those memories live with me, inside of me for as long as I can breathe, for as long as I can say your name in the wind, for as long as my hand can scribble one word or two on a long-lined stationary.

I will cherish every day we spent together, and speak of you with great respect and honor. I will only use highly regarded expressions, and, I promise, I will pick the right adjectives to describe your personality, for I know you consider them the most important elements of a sentence.

No, my eternal Lora, I will not forget you for what you are, for what you taught me, for what and how you made me feel. You were the one who I picked as my favorite friend, the one I kept no secrets from for I'd always thought that secrets were nothing but whims of our souls, foolish mind tricks.

Life has proved me wrong on that. Or maybe I have proven life wrong. Regardless, it's the eccentricities of every day that inspire me, not the critical details of reality.

I've always been a dreamer, a character in my single-acted play, a general without an army, a loner. I'm sorry if my constant selfishness has driven me away from you, has made me drift far off in a sea of personal thoughts; so far that I found myself lost, without a north.

You were always my north and that I'll never forget, and for that I will always be grateful.

But we couldn't go on together anymore.

You're so young, my dear Lora, you're so very young. As for me, time has already carved its indelible wrinkles, its undeletable marks both on my body and mind. I can not cope with this difference anymore. In hindsight, maybe I never could, even in the moments when I loved you the most, for I always knew that such love could not live forever because forever was too short.

I'm shivering like a child as I write these words to you, like the child you made me feel like for all so many moments.

But I can't overcome the obvious. Even my dreamlike attitude, my outlandish lifestyle, my misplaced behaviors can obliterate that. I've grown old, too old for you, my love, my Lora, my child.

It's getting late, too late.

It's indeed time for me to say good-bye.



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