Im boarding a metro in a city you've been to, two seasons before, venturing a street that you've walked back in summer trying to see what you saw, like that unusual statue you were so fond of. I did find it, I think, that it looks better in your photos. Im looking out from the window of a small teahouse I came across, wedged inside a small alley. I wonder if you've ever found this little place-you'd probably fall in love with it more than I do. I guess a city looks offbeat in changing seasons, like the way you'd always be able to tell twins apart, but how they tend to be so similar in so many ways. Im here trying to adjust my scarf and it is not easy to think how you were snacking on your third ice cream and complaining how tropical the weather here was. You are eccentric about the places you go, in a foreign city with nothing but a map and hand signs to rely on, telling me about that one little shop on a street with a name I've never heard of, In a city with more metro lines than my fingers could possibly count, with such longing to return to that I, wondered what caused you to be such attached to a place where no one could understand you, that people walked in a different pace and spoke in a different tongue, that rain there didnt fall as often as it did here, back where you were telling me about unfamiliar cities. I am, constantly thinking, more about the cities you've told me about, and less about you. It wasnt until I got lost in the same city the same way you did that I realised I loved the way you portrayed places more than the actual place itself because two seasons later, I find myself looking for the ghost of you in a city I've never been to.
