We could unplug ourselves
And start writing
We could write
Each other letters
And make frequent trips
To the post office.
It will take too much of our time,
Of course, but our correspondence
Will be longer
And the pleasure of conversing
Will be drawn out.
Anyway, a conversation
Via social media
Mediated by computer monitors
And profile photos
Isn’t really much of a
Conversation, is it?
Anyway, I want to see your
Handwriting, feel the strokes
Of your pen with my fingers,
And smell the ink and paper.
You don’t have to write and sound
Like Jane Austen, although that would
Be great, as well.
You can write like a cardiologist,
I wouldn’t mind.
There are nuances in our handwriting,
We could lie on roof tops
And gaze at the distant galaxies
And talk about our dreams.
We could sit on a bench
Somewhere where there are trees
And lakes and ponds and children playing.
We could read aloud books or talk about them.
We could take trips
Along long stretches of highways
In the South or in the West.
Maybe we could visit Dumaguete
Or Bacolod and the quaint towns
Beaches, shorelines, mountains,
Farms, and old churches –
We could feast our eyes on all of these.
We could stay inside Spanish-era houses,
Learn their histories, and see if we could
Draw out love stories out of them,
Which we could then bring to life through fiction.
You could teach me how to play the piano,
Or the violin, or improve my reading habits,
Or elevate my taste in literature and music and art.
You could teach me how to paint or sketch,
Or how to start a new enterprise and get good at it.
You could tell me your stories about
How life is in the States, Canada, the Middle East,
Singapore, or Australia.
We could just do nothing and simply savor
Each other’s company.