Sometimes, you tread on cobblestoned streets with tiny jumps on your steps, when you're happy,
sometimes, you walk barefooted on green grass in a park on an idle Friday afternoon with your head held down, because you're sad,
sometimes, your hair is ruffled and messy and flying in all directions in a nonchalant bliss,
sometimes, when your hair is cut short, your entire head looks trimmed and all funny,
sometimes, your long fingers with furious affection taps away the piano keys on a whimsical outburst,
sometimes, your eyes are so dead behind the lens that they pierce a hole in the air around you, like sinking but in the wind that blows away your face while you fall from a plane,
sometimes, your eyes curtain a naive mischief that somehow touches the corners of your smile too,
sometimes you drift away into deep little slumbers amidst the heavy laze of late afternoons when the sunlight is so loud that you can hear the rays in the cicadas' chirps,
but,
I have never met you,
nor I ever will,
because,
you do not exist.
But that's okay,
because you exist in the spines of the literature I scribble inside my head,
and, because you exist in the sacred words I trace in the wind with my fingertips,
and because, you exist in the faint whispers I let escape in the evening skies with the birds to carry on their backs on their way home,
and because you exist in the joy I feel whenever I see kids running into their dads after they return from the battlefields,
and because you exist in the warmth I feel when I see moms get affectionately annoyed at her kids,
and because you exist in the vulnerability when a kid feels jealous of their newborn sibling,
I love you already. And if you ever come to me, I will tell you that I've always loved you, all along, all this time, evermore.
