Last June

There are so many things I am not allowed to tell you: I don’t like the way you wrap your towel around your body, the way your voice changes when you are about to say something serious, your eyes when you see in my eyes that I don’t love you.

Last summer when we walked through Hyde Park for hours proclaiming our happiness, listening to the noise from the side road and hearing each other breathe, hearing each other’s heart beat, we had no idea how all this, and love too, will ruin us.

If I could choose one year, one summer to live in for the rest of my life, to relive over and over again, I’d choose last year, last June, when the only thing I was worried about was ‘How do I look?’

You told me once how after we met you'd wake up and eat ice cream every night, too nervous to see me again, too excited not to.

I wish I could take your love and excitement for me and turn them into something useful; something that changes your life forever and you no longer need me.

Last June, you’d tell me about all your dreams, all four big dreams and the small ones too, while pouring us endless amounts of wine and asking me to stay;

I was going to go back to California despite of what you might have said but what you may not know is that I haven't stopped regretting it.

I never told you that the day you cooked for me for the first time last summer I was as nervous as you:

I remember seeing your back in the kitchen, chopping salad, drinking wine and searing tuna; I came over to wrap my arms around you, wondering what life might be like if I stayed.

We are unaware of what time does to us and how much of it we’ve got left until we had become inconsolable – we follow strict plans and big dreams and we forget that we are allowed to be brave or crazy enough to turn around and say :

‘Honey, I’m staying’;

And see what’s going to happen – a new world would open either way, whichever way we go.

I have this image of you at home tonight in your white satin dress;

You dream that last summer wouldn’t be that special anymore because we’ll spend the rest of our summers together , you look at yourself in the mirror, you brush your hair before bed and you dream that I come back.