L., it's been 16 years and I still feel so much love just looking at your face
I see your old photo with P. in Instagram. P. was a friend whose presence in Berlin always gave hope that you'd travel back this side of the Atlantic, and we would walk in 5Terre, Paris or cycle to Nyyyyyon once again.
P. took his own life last year, and you're still grieving him. On the photo, you're as old as that L. that I was so in love with. The only woman I was ever truly in love with. You and P. are laughing.
I look at your other photos taken just a few days ago. You're grieving Palestine (me too). It feels that together with P. you're also grieving that other world for which we all still had hope in that summer of 2008 (me too).
I look at your photos. I look into your eyes. I never told you, but my little L. has your eyes, the same shape, and color. How can this be? Is this the letter L. that gives almond-shaped brown eyes?
I called L. L., because I wanted her name to have a letter that all the most loved women in my life have in their names.