After delightful evenings spent, I shall certainly not go out tonight, but sit at home and write for you. What have I not to tell you?
I have been asking myself every moment if such happiness was not a dream. It seems to me that what I feel is not of earth. I cannot comprehend a cloudless heaven.
However, when the morning rises I look for you, it seems that half of myself is missing. Twenty times a day I judge how strong the illusion is, and how cruel it is to see it vanish.
When I go to bed, I do not fail to make room for you; I push myself close to the wall and leave a great empty space. This movement is mechanical, these thoughts are involuntary.
Because I was weak, I fancied too much of you; as preparing myself for all the mad follies of despair, I thought I was courageous and resigned. Let me cast myself humbly at your feet, you who are so tender yet strong.
One only knows it well when one has lost it, and I am sure to have only learnt to appreciate another. Since the thunder has parted us, have we enough in our hearts?
