I will love you like the 90s. There will be no social media hype for us — no Twitter or Instagram selfies, not even a Facebook post that professes the depth of my affection for you.
We won’t need that in constructing our world.
Instead, I will get a 1935 typewriter from an antique shop and write you a letter. I will press it in-between your book pages or leave it in random places — on your pillow, in your pocket — for you to discover in random days.
I will watch you read and reread it, and I will find delight in seeing your secret smile. Understand that I wrote it for you and no one else.
I will ask you for a walk on the beach. We will talk about life. We’ll bring a chaperone, a kid preferably, and she will trail behind us and collect sea shells. I will kiss you sneakily when she’s not looking.
The wind and the open sky will serve as our witnesses. I will crown your hair with purple thistle.
I will write a poem for you. Better yet, I will dedicate an entire volume of work — like F. Scott Fitzgerald to Zelda — and I will make it strong enough to stand beside your name.
In the cozy afternoon of every summer, we will sneak in the movie theater — passed the guard and the ticket lady — and we will revel in popcorn and old films. We will walk out after that, hand-in-hand, giggling at our secret joke.
I will recite random verses as we stroll on — past the mannequins behind the glass window in that lane of RTWs.
There’s a vinyl in my room. I will ask you to come up, gingerly, through my window. I’m never good at dancing but I will ask you to dance with me.
We’ll play Eric Clapton, Sixpence None The Richer, and Beatles. We’ll sing our lungs out until we’re exhausted. We’ll collapsed on my bed. The online community will never know how we slip into intimacy as the night blooming jasmine soothe our tendrils.
There will be no social media post about it. Our kisses will be a metaphor. I will love you like the 90s. Our entire history will be typewritten.