Dear Love Lost,

It’s been a century or two. At least that’s how time seems without you. Days are long and nights are longer. And how can they not be, if we were timeless? Nowadays it’s just minutes and hours. Days and months. Mortality.

Nothing is vibrant. Spring isn’t piercingly bright, music isn’t a soulful oblivion and good writing isn’t lifechanging. It’s half numbness and half pretend. And yet, there’s pain. Pain in not feeling enough, in not living enough, in not being enough.

Truthfully, I miss you.

I miss taking deep breaths – feeling like my lungs are about to break free from my caging ribs, so that I can fit you inside. Always. I miss feeling so completely overwhelmed with bliss, that everything is exactly as it should be - perfect. Nothing more and nothing less. I miss baring it all, feeling naked while clothed -  because your words are intimacy and because you know me better than I know myself. Inside and out. I miss sharing silence. Being one in the stillness, saying volumes in the quietness, feeling comforted by the calmness, and finding life in the absences. Loving the questions themselves.

I miss me with you. Not trying too hard, not being anyone else (but sufficient).

I miss you with me. Writing the night away, dancing Carlos Gardel, the fears and the aspirations.

I cannot say I didn’t earn this. I did. It’s my fault (in part). Because I had you and I didn’t know how to cherish you. I had you and I didn’t deserve you. And I’m sorry.

Now I don’t have you anymore, and it breaks me into pieces. Unforgiving pieces that refuse to fit together (without you) and make me whole again. It seems you’ll own part of me, forever. But I’m alright with that, because that way, at least part of me will be with you.  

But enough past conjugations. I wanted to write to say I’m sorry. I miss you so much, I’d settle for your friendship. Because when given two paths, one without you and one by your side – however apart – I’d choose having you, even if the Atlantic stands in between. So let’s be friends. I know I said I couldn’t, I didn’t want to, but I do. I know I do. Just like I know tomorrow will come, and I will [still] love you then.

I hope your life is unapologetically beautiful, because you deserve all the good things. No holdbacks. And I hope you fight for what you want, because there’s no other way to be happy. Even if that means going against everyone’s better judgement (and your own idea of stability). To be great, you have to be fearless first - you have to throw a few things out the window, starting with expectations. Break the rules now and then, kiss in public, say hi to strangers, ask questions even when you fear the answer, and don’t settle for anything less than extraordinary. Be in awe, every day. You only get one shot, so be Hemingway, Rilke, Siddharta and yourself - all at once.

And don’t worry about falling, I’ll be here to catch you.

So whenever the bike rides through city wilderness, the smell of slow-roasted coffee beans and the melancholic routines through Berlin; aren’t enough, just give me a call. Or write. Yes, please write.

It’s always nice to hear from you.

Especially these days.

Yours always,



P.S. I got a chalkboard in my room. Just like the one you had. Thanks for the idea.

Hello Papersoul