the flat that smelled like cinammon and had 4 cats

I'm here drinking coffee in a way too late morning with the notebook your wrote in front of me. I carry it around always, because it reminds me of who I was there, with all of you, and how some bonds I am blind to. I'm in a house filled with books, the home of a friend that loves to read and reminds me of you. I catched myself thinking about going home, there, several times these days, and I don't think my body has understood that we are not going back, ever, to the room filled with blue, tears, hugs, and joy. To the living room we made ours. 

I catch myself thinking of a future where we rent one of those flats we saw on out last days, because I know I would be happy and safe there, and our house would be fabulous and it would always smell of cinammon. You're one of the people that I would love to keep around, and it pains me to know how short our time was and how I should have lived it more. The feeling of having endless days was over before I could realize it. 

I am here in the mountains at the start of my new life and I'm scared, because the world is burning, and I can't find the people that see it with me, and help me ease the pain that rises in my chest. I'm scared because talking about the future seems unrealistic now, and if this is the present I don't want it. I'm scared, as always, to be wasting my time in the in betweens instead of feeling at ease with where I am. And for a too brief time I was aligned with it. But the fact that is not in here is scary.

I dream, in a conscious way, of a day where one of those flats is ours and we get to fill it with cats, friends, cakes, and joy. Your quote "I enjoy more spending time with my friends" is something I'm starting to relate to quite a lot. 

Can someone prescribe me mountain or sea air so I can stay here? 

Amb amor,

Maraya