This is an attempt to find you - not in the literal sense of the word, for even though you are always with me, I know I’ll never see you again. No. This is an attempt to find you in the catacombs of my blotted memory, to walk down the dark corridors of my heart and illuminate the rooms in which you’ve been forever locked away, to drag the past out into the light which the Lethean Seine is slowly flooding, to once again stroll the graves of Pere La Chaise and summon the kindred, fatally flawed angels and demons among whom our past is buried, gasping its final breaths into oblivion.

But if you can still close your eyes and count the metro stops in your mind, if you can still take the blurry, wine-stained ride from Saint Michel to Denfert Rochereau to the moment we said goodbye, if you can still climb the stairs of the Hotel de Blois and stumble into the small room where once upon a few enchanted nights, you were mine, then you can always find me. But I’m dying, and so are you, and in the end it’s just a game the best of us can play. So my love, I’m not writing to change your mind, but just to say I miss you, good luck, goodbye. . .

John

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