We sweated tears and a kremlin of emotions from the depths of our being, we went to dream in the mornings, understood each other so deep as our ties were. We gave and gave and gave so much until we had nothing left.
We believed in miracles and thanked destiny for that moment that charged us with life. God, what a full life. A life like not even the best of novelists could contain in words. We gave and gave and gave, we did everything as love describes, we inspired ourselves and expired that fragile and strong togetherness. We gave and gave and gave, and they took so much of us until all our blood was dried. My love, we captured our world in delusion, kisses and cries, conversations, words high and low, silence, in our primordial nature, when our bodily reality and thoughts merged and poured into us countless times. So, what was left for both of us after all this? One phase concise and factual, like an obituary, my love. Such a fucking beautiful love. A love that cannot be refused, because it happens once in a lifetime. Our story may be one of dozens, but I don't believe it was one of millions. The book you brought with the spare panties said: and when the land trembles, the stars fall and your heart would rather explode than be petrified. I put the book where you came from today, all the pictures are etched too deep in me. So come and look at our love story one more time... Photography by Branislav Simoncik. Styling by Nina Ford. Text by Tamara Simoncikova Heribanova.
*Translated from the original article from Vogue Portugal's Love issue, published in December 2020.
Full credits and story on the print issue.