We’ve only known each other for no less than a week, but we know, even without saying and what’s more with eyes closed, that it was the best of times. If you’d like to be precise, it could be somewhere around twenty thousand two hundred minutes, and counting. As I write this sentence, you keep your eyes fixed on me, probably wondering what I was doing, and I try to ignore you. Twenty thousand two hundred minutes and fifty seconds. But you are not one to easily ignore, my love, and my mathematics is far from precise. After all, before you, what I had were nothing but assumptions—those trembling feet testing the water and some other idioms I stopped understanding. We might have had exchanged smiles and thoughts over coffee and some cigarette sticks until the morning sun began to hurt, yet nothing, really, is absolute between us aside from that when we part, we would crawl back to our own separate places, the pains of distance from north to south—you would go back to your own without me and I to mine where I count the minutes that pass by without you, wishing for my return to your arms and to the unspeakable certainty that you have so effortlessly brought.
Twenty thousand two hundred two minutes. Your humming of Coldplay’s Yellow accompanies my hands as I try to end whatever this is I’m writing, as proof, perhaps, that after all, the waiting has not been for nothing. Continue to sing the songs I love to hear. Remember, I am that soft second voice in the background. I could go low and unnoticed, but together, we are one beautiful harmony.
Twenty thousand two hundred four minutes, my love, until I no longer have to count. And, okay, go on, take a photo of me. Take me always with you.