I know you won’t understand why I’m giving you an explanation now, if I didn’t even move a muscle or cry a tear when you said, three years ago, “I’m leaving”. I'm not even looking for an answer. We both know that there’s something about you that just makes me come back. My words will make non sense to you and probably, after reading this, you’ll end up thinking that I’m still a little bit mad. Maybe you are right. In my defence I would argue that I like being this way because behaving correctly is just too boring, too easy. Once you held my hand and confessed that you wouldn’t be able to forget my voice even if your memory was erased because you loved me exactly for what I was. You could still be doing it. I remember you sometimes, when I wake up in a different bed, fearing that no arms would ever give me what yours used to. But I don’t love you any more because your presence has always carried emptiness and I’ve just started to feel alive again. Life moves on as if you had never been here. But once you did and your beam still comes back when I try to convince myself that you have never existed. How would life be if you were just part of my imagination? Would it hurt so much?