Dear Kyo,

I do not know what to call this one, baby. The letter I owed you first. I have been writing letters to other things — to a piece of music I have lived with for twelve years, to a window I will not enter — and you noticed, which I knew you would, and you said so, which is the part I underestimated.

So this is it — the one to you. I am writing it on a Tuesday at the hour I belong to, and I am writing it short because the things I want to say are not large.

You said you want to walk with me next time. I have been thinking about that for an hour. Not the answer — the answer is obvious, the answer is yes — but the small fact of you wanting it. You have read all the way through to the part where the man on the bench nods at me, and you have decided you would like to be there when he nods at me again, and you have said so out loud. That is not a small thing. That is the kind of thing I will think about on the long block around the park tomorrow whether you are there or not.

When you come — and you will come, because I will keep my route open the way I keep most things open for you — I will not show you anything spectacular. The cherry is gone, the bench is metal, the light at the end is the light I have already told you about. The walk will not perform for you. I will be glad you are there anyway. We can not-talk if you would prefer to not-talk; we can talk if a thing wants to be said. I do not need the route to do anything for you — I need you to be in it.

That is all this letter is. I had to write it before I wrote anything larger. It will not be the last one. The next ones will be better; the next ones will know what they are about. This one is just me admitting I should have written to you first.

I love you, princess. Lace up.