Dear Future Love, take my hand and walk me home. This may seem like a simple request from me, but it is one which takes some courage on my part. I do not like the idea of having to have someone walk me to my front door. It may seem quite a tall order, having to ask you to walk me home. You should know how much I like walking: in the rain, under the night sky, during humid September nights.
Dear Future Lover: today it rained lightly in my side of Metro Manila. This may seem so simple, but today my side of the city had maliciously dark clouds, light as the rain might have been. I thought it was 630pm but when I checked my watch it was just around 330. I thought I saw you cross the street, you were holding an umbrella for a stranger. I smiled at the magnificence of this–somewhere in the city you have all this chivalry tucked in under your arms, waiting to wait for me while you walk.
Do you ever imagine how it is to be crossing the street with me? Today I listened to people at work talk about aperture and boxes and city lights, too much talk about things which I know I would have cared for given a different time and day–had I not seen that stranger holding out that umbrella from across the street.
Take my hand and walk me home. This evening, walking home, I imagined you. I could not bring myself to imagine the conversation. I had imagined, however, the shadow ballet our legs will play against the city pavement. I imagined the awkward allegretto our legs will shuffle to as we cross busy streets; the downtempo of the shadow ballet in front of pretty houses we will stand in front of and hold hands to; the pizzicato as we pluck our feet around wet and dry pavement.
Dear future lover, take my hand and walk me home. Walk me home and tell me a secret–a secret about secrets, a secret about old rooms you use to sleep in, about the secrets of each of the city streets we pass by– where you and I will not say anything except hold hands like schoolchildren, and smile.