Write to me for hours, write to me, no matter how much, how little, wherever you are, when you walk on the street or stop for a quarter of an hour under the wild orange-trees of Madrid.

Write to me with the tip of your shoe on the sand or just in the dust of the road. When you sip from your cup in the morning, you could write with an invisible stick right in the steaming tea, write to me in the water that snakes down on your shoulders, on your chest, on your arms when you shower, write to me with shaving foam on the mirror of your bathroom and with a kiss on the elevator’s mirror.

Before you fall asleep, print your message on the pillow, write to me in your dream. Then it’ll be easy to send white, blue, golden pigeons, holding envelopes of purple peonies in their beaks.

Write to me, a phrase, an exclamation, write to me a blossoming cherry, even if it’s winter, even if it’s cold, write to me, sweetheart, beloved.