Sleep Well, Love.

Weren't you the one who made me smile?

No, I didn't cry that night. Not for you, the one who walked away, the girl who danced on the beach and jumped into the icy Irish water. You were ridiculous, or so I thought. Later I realized. You're a handmaiden of God. A kindred spirit of sorts. I saw you carve another name into the sand. You sent away the photo. Not to me. I saw it from a distant window. His name wasn't mine. There were too many letters. Whispers in the other room. I'll pretend to sleep on the couch. I should've foreseen it. But you made me laugh. One of three, maybe four. Nightly meditation doesn't work anymore. Who painted your portrait so long ago? Ah yes, our good friend. Leo Da Vinci.

Ecstasy, the drug, not the feeling.

When I walked into the courtyard under the black sky, I should've known you'd be waiting by the empty fountain. Behind the bushes. With tears running down the side of your face. Wasn't it Valentine's Day? And didn't you call him the same night you talked of dreams with me? Vacations on tropical islands. Yes. I won't let you forget it, babe. Not in a million years. Don't be confused, my darling. It'll soon be over. Time always tells. You were the one who taught me something. A lesson I'm still learning. Too many questions.

In the end, it was you I was thinking about while walking through the streets of Rome. Passed by a female motorcyclist. I didn't accept her offer for a ride. Wishing I had a match to light the cigaretten that dangled from my mouth for hours. Lucky Strike. It wasn't hand rolled. An almost full pack inside my jacket pocket. My lighter was taken. I was in a small pie of eighty thousand foreigners. Screaming with excited anger. The air burned my eyes. The cops held me back. I tried to retrace my steps but had no luck. For hours I roamed through the silent night. Alone at Twelve a.m. One a.m. Two a.m. Three a.m. Four a.m. Five a.m. Six a.m. Seven a.m. When I found my way back the hotel at Eight (a.m.) and passed out on the bed, it was you who entered my dreams. That silent film inside my head. Cappuccino in the afternoon, I must be an American. Not Italia's finest.

Those amazing brown eyes are so familiar. They bring back this feeling. No, not childhood. Every time I see them - even now - they take me to that place. Found in the pit of my stomach. We are standing in the doorway of my flat. You're wearing a pink top and carrying a backpack. A feeling runs through me that I don't recall. We walk for five hours through the city. Getting lost and not caring. Not only in the streets, but in each other's words. Unspoken thoughts. I would've walked with you for days. Through Park West; Marble Arch. Stopping for an occasional drink. Hot tea with milk. Did you think I'd forget?

A seven-page letter. You changed me. For a month or two. "Have you ever been kissed in a graveyard?" I asked. With Chopin, Wilde and Jim as my witnesses, I speak with honesty. The petals of the rose bush were moist. The morning mist trickled down. I saw your smiling face. It caught me off guard. Oh la la. Surprise. Shock. And finally, heartbreak.

I begin to write. I pull a silver hair from my head. You're my inspiration. I do it for you. To see that priceless glance. To hear your praise. Hesitation plays a role. Not a big one. It will later, and it causes destruction. Found by the river and the beach. Along the Western Coastline. I spent my summer there. In the mountains, sitting on a log. It's so beautiful out here, which makes it harder. God damn the beauty.

Snapshots in the photo album of my mind. We all have old memories. Walking through the shallow part of the ocean. Laying on my side, staring at you. Past feelings get washed away by the current. Maybe it was the salt in the sea that got to us. We are tangled in its weeds. Perhaps the breeze blew love away. It was sealed with a pastel letter. Goodbye from Seaside, you wrote. If nothing else, remember this: Your heart will always be on my wall.

Sleep well, love. Night passes quickly, and summer's almost gone.