Dear Future Love: It is raining tonight, like this that when you think about the rain you imagine a warm bed; you imagine me; and you imagine yourself neatly folding the pair of socks you used on that day to work. There is nothing grand nor magnificent about tonight’s rain, except only that I wish you were here.

You would tell me about water. The way leaves outside your window would glisten with dew drops spangling on the blade. The way the roof sounds even in these late hours a dragging and dancing of tiny feet, as tiny as pine tree needles which comb the metal roof. I would tell you about all the anatomy lessons I learned by staring at the strangers on the train. (There was a man sitting by the door, he had the softest looking goatee, I thought it was you. I wanted to say hello.) The prettiest girls are almost always those who were standing up, pensively counting the train posts. Those who were sitting down, with an old lady beside them, are always the ugliest. We would talk about the way I would fold my fists and tuck it in your arm at the promise of spending time with you at 2 in the morning. I would sit beside you, by the flicker of the television; the room would smell like coffee or tea or even something as uninviting as toasted garlic and lugaw or even Jolly Spaghetti. Anything to warm us on a night like this one.

Dear future love, it is raining tonight like this that I imagined you. I imagined only some parts of you. I suppose, in time, it can happen to anyone: a desire to walk out into the rain and look for that promise that someday a You will be here soon.

Dear future love, it is raining tonight. Let us stop being merciless to ourselves and so please show up on the office’s front door. You know where to find me.