I never owned a language entirely, I’ve never been in charged in telling you my blunt thoughts and feelings, I don’t want to be judged. I’m muttered in my mother tongue, I’m stuttered in your flowing accents. Most of the times, I’m lost. I’m an exile without a language, a painter without colors, a writer without love letters. But I copied you, and everything I’ve seen, I touched, anything I slept with. Just in case you’re scared to be forgotten, you can still see parts of us in the way I drink coffee and process dirty dried jokes at 3 in the morning. I imitated the good, the bad, the strangeness and spontaneity of everything I whispered, I kissed, I worshiped. I cried, but not worried when I could not recall your name tonight.