When I was young, I used to chafe at home. I would run away to other countries, meet strange people, thoughtlessly risk my life… fall in love.
I’m still young, if age is but a number.
However, these days my feet seem to stick to the same paths over and over. Through the wrought iron gate, up three quarters of the slope, to my pole – the needle of my internal compass always points in this direction.
I’ve moved to this city so I could spend time with him.
I touch the gravestone with my fingertips and tell him: “Hello, lover.”
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