When you are old and grey and full of cancer, when you're nodding off, senile, when you are thinking of Napoleon, when, briefly you remember books. Then, as that last light in your eyes leaves you, I want you to remember. I want you to realise how much I am gone from you, how far I went, all that I achieved.
I want you to remember, two girls laughing, on at Earls Court, getting off at Paddington, and the slightly older man, with the guitar on his shoulder, who saw in both of you that extra light, that lift in the spirit of woman and frowned at you both when you disparaged it.
You were both beautiful, Sandra was unbelievable, but what attracted me to you was the heft of you, the mental weight, the way you knew, the way, no matter how many years you might waste, knew you would achieve.
It is so true that love is wasted on the young. I remember it all. I loved you in Paris, but you told me, “Let's not mention being in love. Pretend we don't like each other.” You said the sex would be better that way.
I lost you in Berlin.
I have been gone two weeks. It's looking much clearer now, fourteen days in. I’m not drinking, I’m working out, I’ve thrown away the phone. I’m re-starting. I’m on the fast-track to something special. I will get there – I have to. I have to know you saw me flying. I have to know you ache, and that when you try to dine out on us, dropping my name, nobody believes you.
You snubbed me so many times. You left me hopeless, suffocating beside the dance floor, left me crying as you went through Passport Control, left me, left me, left me, to beat a jealous bloody fist against a wall as you walked away with some guy, a guy you didn’t care for, a guy you would never see again.
You left me, staring at a hole in the world, invisible, except to me. You left me to watch your fading glow, your shine and your shadow, the light-dark, happy-sad brightness like the sun gleaming behind the executioner’s head.
Just remember, remember as you strut your stuff, my love, as Armanis drift in and drift out of your circle, as you turn your perfect cheek, and as you vaguely remember David , David Whatsisname.
Remember. And when the mood takes you, try coming to me in a dream, yours, or mine. Come to me on tip-toe, whispering gently as you whispered to me in Paris and I told you what was going to be.
Just remember, remember this letter. Then fuck off.