The Cost of Leaving

I tried reading Hemingway's "The Sun Also Rises" to get the feel of how Spain would be in the summer, but it doesn't sound anything like the stories you used to tell me. If it were only that easy. Then maybe I would be holding you in my arms right now instead of scribbling in this little Moleskine, wishing you were close enough to beg me to read what I was thinking. I still wouldn't. No matter how crinkled your nose gets. I like to think it's something about principle. Just come find me. It would be so much easier that way.