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.
Photo source: http://www.sxc.hu/photo/1341328
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