You were pretty bad at German.

You were pretty bad at German, even though your parents were from those lands. You conquered girls saying a lot of random words in German, mixing them together and they, with a silly laugh, fell like flies attracted by a light: bright, but fatal. That's how you went through life, bed after bed, and after all of that, you would come back to me, hug me and we would cook together.
We were friends and that’s why I knew that you only ever learned how to properly speak Spanish and that you preferred to sing in Italian; that yoy always took my “Ich liebe dich” as a joke without looking not even once the meaning of that phrase.
I can bet you never imagined that watching movies with you on the couch was my favorite moment, when you let your guard down and you were not a playboy, where you were you, eating popcorn with ketchup, laughing with nasal sounds and hugging me without noticing how fast my heart was beating, no matter how many times you have done it before.
I knew that I was the only one which you could be like that, and I was stupid, the word that I use to say that I was happy, for believing that one day you will correspond to my feelings. But each Friday you were on a different bed, with a different girl and that girl was never me. Each Saturday afternoon you would come back to me, telling me what happened -your ego held high-, with a new movie under your arm and I would smile, greet you with another “Ich liebe dich” and you would laugh. Again.
We continued with our lives, you never learned to speak German and married with a Spanish girl when she got pregnant. Stopped coming by every Saturday and asked me to be that baby’s godmother. I took French classes and lose my virginity to an Italian boy that resembled you. I moved, far away from you as I could, although you never asked me why; you helped me pack meanwhile your daughter crawled in my living room, that was converted on a baby’s safe field, right after seeing her eyes for the first time, she had the same as yours.
One day, seated at a café I asked you if you were happy and answered “yes”, I repeated for a last time that I loved you in German and kissed you on the cheek before leaving the place. I never saw you again and I changed my phone number; my mother didn’t tell you where did I moved and the years went on by. Later, I had a son with a German, I didn’t name it after you, but his laugh remembered me of our Saturdays sitting on the couch.
And I always knew that you were pretty bad at German and I was bad on being sincere in a language that you could understand.