I do not know if I’ll write about how I miss you, about how much I love you and longing you.
Eight or nine years, I do not remember . You were 22 years old and you seemed to own the world. I hated you. But I was wrong.
We break-up, we started all over again. On and Off.
We were young and we could do everything. I could end it all because I was afraid of us. I’ve always been a criminal in this aspect.
We lost and we won during these years.
One day you said you were leaving. Away. Far away.
It was the day I realized I was really in love with you. I laughed. I wished you good luck (always been a coward) and later, I got sick.
I learned to live without you. To pretend. Everything was fine.
We grew. I searched for you. We were friends again. The time actually passed by us.
And the rest of the story is so long that stands between us. What mattered was always the same.
A life of waiting, crying, airports, winters, summers, gardens, letters, discussions, statements, and what surprises we have never shared.
I still can not tell if I’m writing because I miss you or if I can’t stop loving you.
I can’t stop loving you.
I want a lot of things. I would like to be immortal, I would like to have a garden and to have snowflakes. But what I really want is your love only for me. Forever.
Forgive my selfishness and all of my crimes.