far too much writing, far too many photos

Another love letter from this last weekend’s El País Sunday magazine (copyright 2003 El País) [see journal entry of two days ago for others]:

My dear love,

I always saw you, but one day I saw you. What dignity! What you hid behind that elegant, provocative hat! And that radiant smile….

I finally saw you, dear neighbor: finally you pierced me. (Metaphorically, of course.) My heart — not a beginner — recognized immediately the furor, the uncontrollable madness of a love being born. That event — one has to be precise here — took place in the sixth decade of a life, one that I considered to be full, complete. My god, dear neighbor, the ache.

We stole glances at each other through your windows, my windows. Then came the conversation at the mailboxes, the small, indiscreet grafittis, the exchange of e-mail, of intense letters. We did foolish things to meet, to find each other, and only God knows how foolish they were.

And now you’re there, my dear love, a man among my books, my poems, my plates, my clothes, my writing pads, and you’ve settled in the landscapes of my heart (landscapes not very calm, but sincere).

Your napkin holder is in my kitchen, your pajamas are tucked away beneath my pillows. It’s what happens when two people are neighbors, very close neighbors.

Happy Valentine’s Day, neighbor.

– Silvana Croze

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