...there are still two weeks left, but, you know.

Libi I'm trying to write you this letter though I'm no good at it. I always worry that what I'm going to write in the letters will haunt me later on for some reason. Not that I have anything special to write you about. Anything you can't imagine by yourself probably.
So I am leaving, as you know (do'h). Of course I'll miss you Libi. I'll miss your eyes so intense and sweet when we hold each other, your arms when we fall asleep together, your cheering voice as you enter the door, noises of you in the kitchen, in the bathroom, out on the yellow terrace talking to the neighbor's cat. I'll miss our clothes scattered all over the apartment, your round breast, the way you give me, I'll miss you at night, when I'm awake and I hear your soft snoring coming from the other room, that always made me warm, our moments of bravery with the sex, our plans for dinner every night, the contorted and lengthy summaries of the movies you saw. I'll miss not seeing our plants flourishing this spring or getting sick. Even that corny french music all in minor key you always want to listen to. I'll miss hearing of your mother's cat, whom you nicknamed with the same nickname you gave me. I'll miss the countless ways you found to make me feel not guilty, of being alive, of being what I was, of not always doing the right thing. I always tried to protect you but if I succeeded at lengths it only was because you needed so little. Manifested so little. See, I know that.
I'll leave and miss the warm love that my leaving triggered from somewhere inside ourselves, even if it was forced out somehow.
You know that I'll be away for three months, although I am not so sure it will be three months, maybe it will be more, or less. I want you to be strong and go on with everything because I'll be back anyway. I wish I was leaving you with someone else like a child or a pet. But our lives are still important to take care of if we part. And if I am not coming back, because I die or something, please know that the days were all true, all true. True like fear, like illness, like lust, like hunger, like all that I postponed waiting to find the courage to give more to you. True when I ran away from you, true when I came back, true when I said I was sorry. Sometimes I wondered whether it was true or not, but what is true? Is it a lie to think that it's true all that we can't rationalize? And if I really die or something keep my relatives away from my stuff if you can, except maybe the pictures, and destroy the blog please. The password is written under the drawer of the green table (...)