Dear London,

This is hard to admit — but I think about you more than I should.

Reminders of our time together flit endlessly in and out of my world.

Memories… places… people. Threads, unwound and flailing.

Maybe I liked how you gave me a way to be myself. And maybe I haven’t quite found that anywhere else.

And maybe I regret never really being yours.

Always lost in some other place while you opened up to me. Took me in. Held me close. All while I was never quite there.

I remember the river and the stars and the sky. Cigarettes and cheap wine. Ripples by the edge of a lake. Long conversations under grubby streetlights. And the rain.

Always the rain.

And maybe I was never right for you — the same way I was never quite right for anyone, or anything. But in that moment, at that place, in that time — you were exactly what I needed.

In that brief, irreplicable instant of infinity.

Transience means I don’t have a ‘you’ to go back to. And I don’t think that’s what either of us is looking for. Ideas remain ideas. And I think I recall the idea of you.

More so than the place.

And so we drift endlessly in our own worlds. Occasionally crossing, sometimes wondering, always remembering.


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