Everything I love about this city is inseparably entwined with everything I love about you. I can't drive out of the city without remembering all the times I drove out there with you. I can't raise a toast without remembering all the times we clinked glasses. I can't look out the window without seeing your ship, without seeing the road to our little house.
And we can't go three months without calling each other. And we can't have breakfast on Saturday if we aren't eating crepes, can't get through a meal without finishing each other's sentences.
Ours is a book that will never really close. It will lay open at the last page we read, on the dock of the Sackville, forever. Perhaps in another life, kochanie, we will meet again. Surely it must be so, for the one thing we really can't do, when you get right down to it, is say good bye.