I miss Berlin, with its blossoming cherry trees, the songs in the underground, the thin line between day and night and the feeling of two lungs filled with freedom. I miss turning every single bench into a bar and every square metre around us – an amusement park. Sneaking back into the apartment and watching each other’s backs. Stuffing your pockets with sweets for the road. Stealing looks at each other when one of us is taking the train and the other stays alone on the platform.
I miss Lisbon, which deranges my heart with joy and it starts beating like crazy. Then it wanders through the colourful streets and tries to find its fortune. And it finds… the ocean, books about love, melancholic fado around the corner, and an old tram that it doesn’t want to take off. It stops tired at the stairs in Belem and reaches out its arms to touch the sunset with its fingertips.
I miss the Island of Love, my Cyprus. Beautifully raw and generously welcoming. With that silver hue of daylight that makes you daydream. That makes you in love. And our village with two churches and a cinema. And a video rental store, filled with tapes. (Here we are, in front of the romantic film section.)
It seems like time spares us and slows down the hands of the clock. (Look at me and keep your eyes on me! You can’t even begin to imagine how much you are going to miss this beach. This day. And me.)
I miss the forest near Copenhagen. And the cottage where you played Yann Tiersen on the piano. Then you dived into the pages of your book and you eluded me within two sighs. Deep dark ink spills all over the sky and several million stars adorn it. It is minus something outside. But my hand melts in yours. Some more Yann Tiersen and one more glass of bitter wine and some more timelessness.
The hard cover of a book with the colour of ancient amber reads, “The universe is comprised of stories, not atoms.” And I wink at the universe.
And you wink at me.
Text: Alexandra Tosheva
Photos: Britney Egner