All my life I’ve been leaving you behind, love. I left you on the promenade as the otherwise raging sea lay calm and watched me walk along amidst the crowd, smiling, perhaps for the first time in a long time. I left you as I unboxed a shoebox full of memories and found a dried-up rose in it; I left you as I put the rose into the pile labelled: discarded. I left you as I lost myself in the city of chaos, picking up random fights in bars or sometimes, buying drinks for everyone on the floor. One action not too different from the other, both of them making me feel something again. I left you in a drawer in an otherwise empty apartment: the only thing I left behind as I packed my life together in eleven neat boxes. I left you at the airport as I boarded a flight to a place called home, visiting it for the very first time again. I left you as I sat in a café, staring blankly at a chair that reminded me of the last time I saw you, years ago. As I sipped my coffee and stared out the all familiar window again, I let out a sigh and chuckled. The joke was on me. You see, all these years, I’ve been leaving love behind, love, but tell me: what else could you do when you’re left behind yourself?