Normally I am very cautious with my heart. Yet as I was gazing off the rooftop of my new apartment, watching the sunset behind the mountains, I realized I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve fallen in love.

I cursed to myself as I realized I’d fallen in love with yet another heart breaker. I’ve honestly lost track of how many times I’ve broken my own heart. I guess it’s my own fault. I’ve let my guard down again and again as I leave bits of my heart across the world.

I don’t leave it with boys, Oh no, I leave it in the nooks and crannies of a city. In the corner of a cafe in Prague, on the mountain top over looking Barcelona, in a park on the edge of a river in Porto. I’ve left pieces in the jungle of Costa Rica, on the beaches in Australia, in the sand dunes of the Sahara desert. And now, on my own rooftop in Arequipa.

Sometimes it’s quick, sometimes it’s slow, but normally it just hits me like slap in the face and I realize I’ve fallen heads over heals. Then two days later, or if I’m lucky six months later, I’ll have to end the romance.

I’m already not looking forward to this breakup.