A lot of my communication and social interaction revolves around boys from abroad. I call them boys, although many of them are no longer boys. They have this time behind them. And this awaits even me one day. It awaits everyone once. But what are we talking about? About painful things and those unnecessary things, maybe?

But is there anything in between?

We’re not talking about exchanging books with someone for several years. First I’ve started borrowing them, then we’ve started having them for Christmas or maybe just like that. About how we go for a beer together, how we talk, and how I look at him. How we never talk about our lives, about how we no longer dream together, because we are long beyond this limit. We are talking about lives around, our word will no longer come to our lives. We don’t even remember the things that were, in which we both took a part. We’re not talking about what it could be, because it wouldn’t work out, just as we broke each other’s hearts once. Or at least how he broke mine. Because I don’t blame him. Not anymore. Every crunch of my ribs was worth it because even though we don’t talk about our lives, we talk all the time. We talk all the time – we talk over each other, we talk together, we talk. I would miss it if we didn’t talk at all. And everything in moderation – one begins to appreciate more. We go for that beer at least once a year, and maybe that’s why we have so much to say. And whenever I notice that we start getting more drunk, I go home. There is no safer path than the one that leads to hell and is paved with good intentions. Once every six months, maybe once every three months, we write to each other. To see if we’re both alive. And when I wasn’t alive a month ago, he wrote to me every day about how it would be all right. That I’ll be fine. Because I asked him to.

This is an article of gratitude, just like the previous one. You know that. Thank you for all the weird evenings in the south, for the tons of poems I’ve read from you, and especially for all the books.