Take me by the hand and grab your amber woolen knit hat.
We embark on a journey through the concrete jungle. With its mesh of light and noise we find a vacant bridge. We tag our story amongst the others and orally recount them over a fire pit.
We laugh. We cry.
We cross our hearts and hope to die, a promise that we'll always have each other. You pull out a milk carton and I, my tea canister. The night is upon us and we finish the evening with milk tea.
We travel for miles, like you said when you wanted one day.
Occasionally, you would reach out your arms towards the sky and smile. "How great it is to be on an adventure," you would always say.
We collected left behind handwritten notes.
We pocketed every single slip of paper. I would tell you that I'd make the notes into a book someday, a sequence of words and scribbles into something somewhat coherent. Well, I hoped.
One night you couldn't sleep well.
I told you a soothing story about things you liked and things you hoped for. On another restless night nothing could wake you. I touched your fingertips and palms and you'd respond with a sigh.
"Find me," you said one day and then you disappeared.
I searched for weeks. It was noon when I returned home. The warm breeze touched my cheek as I entered, welcoming me. And there you were with a kettle in hand. You welcomed me.
And we had ourselves some milk tea.