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IN SURREAL vignettes, two years from now, a child between us, we’ll explore the starry sky, like an art piece, neither dark nor black, strangely violet and parsley green; imagine a carpet though it’s mossy grass underneath, palms under heads, four feet locked, brilliant silence, only punctured by the click of your lips as you’d part them to say something, leave unsaid.
In concealed messages, six months from now, we’ll spill longing on a long-distance call, craft a story from drab routine, you about the battlefield, me about a patient, then, drown in tear-dampened pillows strewn on lonely beds, doubting what’ll become of us.
In edgy moments, as college kids graduating six weeks from now, we’ll talk of dreams, imagine how you’d examine the confetti showers at our wedding, you’d knot brows and ask, Will it be at a beach? And I won’t contradict, though it’d be at our local Chapel I’m cent-on-cent sure, instead wait for you to help me unearth tentacles of some unnamed passion decaying within.
In the present, upon a beginning, we stand before the café at the appointed place, look south towards the lit terrace, the tower of an obscure church, our hands clasped, and pretending to omit the fact that we ever met, ever heard of the troubles in the world, walk right through what is like a painter’s frame.