What is more beautiful, my love? Love lost or love found? Don’t laugh at me, my love. I know it, I’m awkward and naive, when it comes to love, and I ask questions straight out of a pop song. This doubt overwhelms me and undermines me, my love. To find or to lose? All around me people don’t stop yearning. Did they lose or did they find? I can’t say. An orphan has no way of knowing. An orphan lacks a first love. The love for his mama and papa. That’s the source of his awkwardness, his naivete. You said to me, on that deserted beach in California: “you can touch my legs.” But I didn’t do it. There, my love, is love lost. That’s why I’ve never stopped wondering, since that day: where have you been? And where you are now? And you, shining gleam of my misspent youth, did you lose or did you find? I don’t know. And I will never know. I can’t even remember your name, my love. And I don’t have the answer. But this is how I like to imagine it, the answer. In the end, my love, we have no choice. We have to find.
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