In my dream you smiled, knowingly, mischievously, kindly, at me, while I was trying to chat up other women. I felt ashamed but I also felt the warmth of your heart, that you meant well and that you wanted the best for me. I later talked to you and it made me happy.

It was magnificent to see you. You wore the same outfit you did when I last saw you in London in that hot summer (oh, how I remember the first day, us going to the side of that pond to lie down). Four short days of making love to you. Then you leaving, at the airport, talking at the counter, me taking a picture of you. I still have that photo. You wore a Levi’s jacket and a red scarf and you had dark round hair, a beautiful long black skirt and those white sneakers you always wore. How amazing you were. And you were there with me in my dream, dressed just like that. I miss you.

You know, we don’t get to have this often. It doesn’t happen every year. I was reading Grief Is The Thing With Feathers, and remembered that losing someone we love is like loosing someone to death. One must bereave the person. But I haven’t lost you. We never said goodbye because we lost our love. We said goodbye because we had to. I don’t want to feel grief.