I don't like your wanderlust.

I don't like it when you share with me your impressions of different countries and cities. You speak on different languages.

I'm annoyed by the fact that I never know exactly where you are today and where you will be tomorrow.

Every time you leave, you become dead to me. Like a long forgotten memory or a hazy dream. As if I never met you, I made you up.

You keep running somewhere, flying away, moving, you can't sit still.

You send me a few photos from time to time, and I hate it.

It's impossible to love you.