I dodge cars and trucks speeding by carelessly. I reach the other side of the road. Crossing the street without you holding my hand feels like tempting Death.
Standing on this street corner, I think of you. (I always think of you, of course, but tonight particularly.) I’m waiting for a bus to take me away from here and I suddenly remember how much I miss going home with you.
It’s August and it’s cold, the rainy season’s starting – do you still remember how we kissed under a light drizzle, on this very street corner? Or how we took so long to get home because we couldn’t take our eyes off each other for a second even to glance at the jeepney signboards?
You remember how I would let so many buses pass by before I’d actually board one? Truth be told, I was actually just waiting for a goodnight kiss, and I finally had to come out and ask you for it.
If I had known that one year later I’d be standing in this same spot all by myself, with no hope of ever getting that goodnight kiss again, I might have let five, ten, a hundred, a thousand, buses pass me by back then, just to have had more time with you.
This is a four-way intersection, and you took a different road. It’s been twelve months and here I find myself retracing my steps over and over, wearing down the heels of my shoes, beating a path down the concrete.
I peer into the night, not to look for a bus, but to see where you might have gone.