To Espen

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The true letter.
The words I wish I had said when I was twenty-two, twenty-three.

When you took me out for my first beer.
The second.
After one month.
After a year of friendship.
And how faithful you were.

I wish I could have told you then:

I can’t feel anything.
Most of the time, I feel nothing.

But when I’m with you—
when you call—
I feel everything.
Only you.

It’s as if the world suddenly has meaning.
I don’t know what it means,
but I know exactly what it feels like.

I can’t tell you that I love you,
because I never learned how to say I love you
from an honest heart.

And I can’t be honest with you,
or with anyone,
because I live in a closet.
In a box.
Tucked away.

You pull me out.
We get drunk.
We dance.

But I have to leave before the club closes.
Leave you there.
Go home alone.

Because I know that if I go home with you—
or if you come home with me—
I might kiss you.
Or I might not.

And I will keep lying.

And I cannot lie to you.
Not about me.

I am a lie.

And I think
I love you.

Yours always,

Adriano.

Credits: The painting is titled Brent by the South African artist Andre Serfontein, created in 2024.