Promise me we will go to see the geyser, stay for a while, and you will name your son Harrison.
Promise me I will have no worry about consuming sugar, drawing on the wall, missing my high-school friends, owning more camera, or running a little vintage bookshop.
Promise me you will graduate, and when I do, you’d clap the loudest, and wait for me with the cliché; bouquet of flowers. You would smile, so would the flower seller. Then the pavements would surely be full.
Promise me then.