March 4, 2010
Dear J.,
I remember that morning very well. It was the first of the month. I hadn't gotten around to staying in the quiet room for hours on end yet.
We decided to meet on a whim. While walking to where you were, I caught a glimpse of you. Your technicolor, curly-topped, besunglassed glory. And that's where I knew it. I knew you from before. I don't know from where or when, but I've known you for a long time.
Two nights before that, while we were just talking and laughing and sharing a cigarette on the phone, I heard a little bird saying, There goes a jazz tune, and I listened. While on the way to a friend's house the following morning, that song played in my head. And on my way home, too, and while I was trying to get some sleep. While I was on my way to work. While I was working. While we were sharing that spaghetti, those cigarettes. While I was on my way back home on the slowest jeepney I've ever taken.
Months and a couple of grey hairs and a few beers and trips to fast-food chains and convenience stores and countless cigarette stubs later, I'm still in awe and wonder and amazement. Oh, your technicolor, besunglassed, curly-topped glory. My wandering days are over. I'm home, and I'm staying. I don't care from where or when I knew you, but it still feels like a long time.
Would you let us turn that long time into forever?
I love you,
J.
I remember that morning very well. It was the first of the month. I hadn't gotten around to staying in the quiet room for hours on end yet.
We decided to meet on a whim. While walking to where you were, I caught a glimpse of you. Your technicolor, curly-topped, besunglassed glory. And that's where I knew it. I knew you from before. I don't know from where or when, but I've known you for a long time.
Two nights before that, while we were just talking and laughing and sharing a cigarette on the phone, I heard a little bird saying, There goes a jazz tune, and I listened. While on the way to a friend's house the following morning, that song played in my head. And on my way home, too, and while I was trying to get some sleep. While I was on my way to work. While I was working. While we were sharing that spaghetti, those cigarettes. While I was on my way back home on the slowest jeepney I've ever taken.
Months and a couple of grey hairs and a few beers and trips to fast-food chains and convenience stores and countless cigarette stubs later, I'm still in awe and wonder and amazement. Oh, your technicolor, besunglassed, curly-topped glory. My wandering days are over. I'm home, and I'm staying. I don't care from where or when I knew you, but it still feels like a long time.
Would you let us turn that long time into forever?
I love you,
J.