I don’t understand a single word from your language, while you read my thoughts even when I grind my teeth and look like a natural disaster ready to break and destroy. You are not afraid, however, and you have the right not to. First, I will devastate my own heart before even setting foot at your doorstep.
We are ridiculous! Your Mexican parallels meet my Bulgarian meridians at a precise point somewhere across the Mediterranean Sea. There is no way for us to run and hide. At least you swim well, but not as much as to run away from me on land.
How easy it is for me to say: “Forget it, is doesn’t make any sense, the situation is clear from the beginning and you are not going to like the end.” But before I speak – I think, and before I think – I feel. And this is where I get confused – on the verge between the visible and the unthinkable.
14 days later I will wake up in my own bed, having hardly managed to bring my suitcase back, allegedly filled with the same amount of clothes and supposedly necessary stuff, but no. Somewhere in the corners, between the sea shells, the sand and the postcards from different cities, there are stuck all our quickly captured and sincere memories. Memories about taking down masks unexpectedly, about the colour of your eyes, which I am trying to think a name of, because I have never seen one like this before. And about the unnecessary battles to hate each other in order to make the breakup easier.
Tourist websites and cliché books call our match point across the Mediterranean Sea an island of love. And now I know why, but I swallow up the cliché with difficulty when I say goodbye.
I don’t want any promises of meeting again. I don’t want us lying to each other in order to make it easier.
14 days later I wake up in my own bed with one sole idea: how much I wish it was yours, as well.
And how I wish I could look at myself in the colour I have just thought a name of.
Text: Alexandra Tosheva