Letter to Audrey - 2

 

Dear Audry,

I can't accept the fact that for the third time I have been fed with the illusion of seeing you again. One last time. Before I leave forever.

And, Audry, my dear, this time it's really happening.

They called me, the day of my birthday, while I was in London. They will send me to Australia, Congo, or Mexico. They are agreeing which position they will give me internally. It is a matter of weeks now, and then I will leave Europe, for a few years. 

And I feel so stupid, for getting so attached to this awaiting, this neverending expectation of you, like a contrapasso in a new circle of Dante's Inferno, awaiting for this never-happening dream of us away somewhere, in a cottage outside Manchester or Amsterdam, far away from everything. Just you and me, our memories and our dreams, and the world outside.

I hate myself for it. I hate myself for being a fucking romantic dreamer. I hate myself for having had agreed to meet you again in November. Those pictures at the airport. I don't hate myself for writing and phoning you. Because you needed me. But now, that I know that I am about to leave and that our lifes are taking for real different ways, I feel meaningless, disillusioned, broken.

Seeing you again reminded me of those moments I felt that when I was with you, time stands still. As if the whole world disappears and I could have watched you for hours, without getting bored... And then you would have looked at me shyly, clenching your white teeth in an embarrassed, but in-love cute infinite tender smile. 

And with your hands behind your back, looking nervously to the sides, you would have hinted a bow, like a little clumsy altar girl. And then I would have hugged you and held you close to me, smelling your hair, caressing your shoulders, lightly brushing your body with my fingers.

And finally we will have fallen asleep, little by little, slowly, holding each other, together.

I am writing this to you because I do not understand how the fuck is possible that I had not considered at all that this moment would not eventually come and how deep in my unconscious had settled the desire of you and me, of us, together, another-one-last-time-more.

I cannot accept it. 

I feel like an idiot and, perhaps, I really am.