Liking you is tender.
It means that I enjoy drinking the moments spent with you.
It means that the voice of your eyes and the gaze of your smile linger with me long after you go.
Liking you is innocent.
Because I am softly hurled back to my younger self despite my age and my wisdom.
Because it makes me carve hearts and arrows in the aged barks of trees in my playground.
Liking you is romantic.
There are flowers and violin players in the sidewalk cafeteria where we eat.
There are streams and brooks and swans in the noisy roads that we travel.
Liking you is pretty scary.
There is no certainty to the amount of sensible words that might get lost when I get to see you again soon.
There is that nagging and sometimes numbing thought that you’re already seeing me differently from now on.
Liking you is not loving you.
Liking you is making you that beautiful exception among the bright stars in the sky, the mosses in the stones and the moist morning grasses in the vast field.
Liking you is waiting for that season when loving you would already be alright.
September 8, 2007
Bohol Bee Farm, Panglao Island, Bohol
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