Love in the Big City

When I write—or when I’m going about my day—I sometimes feel as vague and uncertain as if I’m all alone wandering through a cloud of dust, but sometimes I feel a warmth, like my hands have touched something. I want to call that something love. I know all too well how this emotion called love, how the word itself, can easily crumble into nothing, but all I can do is tightly grip this tiny bit of warmth and embrace it with all my might. Just so I can live on as myself. Just so I can live this life as myself and myself alone.

Rain still falls during the late rainy season, as do tears even when it’s too late.

I gave her a tiny wrapped chocolate that I’d had in my pocket for who knows how long, and she smiled at me like someone who had never known sadness in her life.

I still sometimes think that if I just reach out, I could touch the bridge of his nose.

Just you and me being here together. That’s what I like.

Look, can’t someone sing a song on the street if they want to? It’s a free country . .

Look, can’t someone sing a song on the street if they want to? It’s a free country . .

Things are beautiful when they fade out

It gave me joy that food I had made with my own hands would become part of his body.

He would wave until the bus turned a corner and I vanished completely from his sight. He was the first person who had ever gazed after me that way.