I’m baffled, wordless. I am tempted to ask you to take a picture – I don’t want to sound paranoid, but are you sure she’s Erika? Maybe your mind is playing a strange game. Maybe she only looks like her, just that bit to make your neutrons roll.

Enough with my skepticism, what you described seemed to me like a wonderful evening, one of those magical evenings which exist outside of time and space and make cradle for love.

Ungaretti said in one of his most beautiful poems,

Our illnesses
melt together

and like carried away
we stay.

Whomever you met – Erika, or Julia – you shared a night and your soul; and this can only change things. There’s a part of me that hopes she’s real, that you’ll have access to a soul which darkened the minds of many people, a soul that’s been bathed in black but is now quiet in the light. Another part of me just thinks we’re deluding ourselves, with a lookalike that our minds love to have, because it’s so easy to superimpose what we want.

But maybe it’s just me being over cautious. Forgive me, but in this world that brings us to always overshare, our interactions are only via letters; you can be Erika for all I know, chilling out on the beach after having killed Alessio.
Bad joke, I apologise.

I guess you’re gonna meet her again – it is destiny now, what I see; dots and crumbles that connected, looking back, directly here, to this moment in time. And in two or three months time, who knows which crumbs we will have followed, what roads we will have taken.

Of all the roads one can follow, love is the most unknown one.

I just hope our memories of the lives we’ll live soon will be worth keeping, and not haunting our sleep.

I’m really looking forward to hearing from you soon, very soon.




It did happen. It was bound to happen. Like clouds that gather at the margins of the sky announcing rain. The ineluctable ticking of a clock, a leaf turning brown, the falling of snow.

I met her again. I was out with some friends after work and I was having one too many glasses of wine. The spring is here with gentle nights that invite you outside. There’s a church in a square near the sea which is just perfect to hang out with your own bottle. And I was sipping from my glass and laughing at nothing but the pleasure of being alive; from the distorted mirror of my drink I saw a girl, and when I raised my eyes, Erika was there.
And this time I took courage with both hands and smiled, and took the bottle from someone’s hand and poured her a glass. I extended my arm, an invitation to come inside that protected space.

She took the glass, and smiled back.

From there I forgot the world and the pressure of knowing, and I just played blank slate. Her name was not Erika but Julia, she was not 30-something but 26, and her face was not the hideous safe of a ominous secret but a map to serenity. I hit reset and stole the wine and the glasses from my friends and disappeared to the beach. Alone with her, alone with my fear.

And in the enchanted wind of a warm spring’s night I took her lies in. And it didn’t seem wrong. For if I hadn’t known her hidden soul I would have fallen in love with her on the spot.

I know what you’re thinking, you’re thinking I’m mad, crazy, and should thread carefully. But where did I go threading with care? I have the wine to keep my thoughts from eating myself and little money to throw down the drain; a light summery place and a heart who wishes to fly. You said it yourself, maybe she’s changed. And I see a different person from there. I don’t see who she was but who she is; and that is enough to me.

Before your mind rushes let me clarify that nothing happened but the controlled entanglement of two beings while the sun set down and came back up again. The wine ended up too soon but we had the night and a blanket of stars to keep us drunk.

And I could’ve kissed her; I know I could’ve. But my mind is braver than my lips, so while I was playing out with myself how to do that courageous thing, that moment slipped away, and I simply said Goodbye after having walked her home.

I had her number and address before, but this time it was written on a napkin, and I could remember her lips closing it shut with red lipstick. I stayed up all night and sipped wine but my senses were tainted by chemicals my own brain produced. I couldn’t bear myself to sleep nor go to work, so I called in sick, and tried to watch some movie, and composed a message and a thousand more that I never sent her. And now, while I’m finally drowsy and feel that my body is losing the grip, I am writing you, looking for your words, for your blessing, because deep down I feel I’m doing something wrong.

Yours until Morpheus comes,