“But you know he is French”, he said to me.
It was a reversed warning, something I already knew.
I had already ended it with my French lover.
The French are not that reliable when it comes to love.
Sadly, I tell from experience.
Although they are an exhibition of ‘l’amour toujours’, or something they would like to promote.
I believe the French are a pronunciation about the tenderness of the heart.
The French arrogance is perhaps something mistaken, to protect and serve what can only be understood by someone that listens.
To the whisper of the soul and perhaps who understands love truly.
Who could that be?
It was this French guy I was dating.
There was something about him.
About me and him.
It was the look on people’s faces, when we were walking hand in hand in the streets of Lisbon.
The judgement of others can be scary, however it could also be something positive.
“People are looking at us”, he said.
“Yes”, I answered.
“We make sense”.
This silent approval of the outside world was the confirmation given by the world we were living in.
Although the love between us died, perhaps it never even existed.
I can still not understand exactly what happened.
It was really a mystery what he did.
That I felt something deep with him, is clear to me.
Many reasons I can give, why it isn’t anymore.
When it comes to love, I believe there should be room to be and to become.
At least this is the memory I have when I think of him.