Valparaíso – you are not my lover, nor are you my dearest friend. You have not held my hand through my first heartbreak, and you have not kept the rebellious secrets of my youth. You have not held me in a warm embrace after a long day’s journey, nor have you heard me sing into the morning’s light. At best, we are nodding acquaintances, acknowledging each other’s presence through the prolonged stares of people passing in the streets.
You open like a book – your buildings popping up, dotting the pages with palettes that only an artist could admire, and yet… I have yet to discover the secrets of the cryptic language that you are written in. The many folds of your city remain a mystery to me, even as I sit in the midst of them, overlooking your people, your sea.