I crossed the street, and sat at the cafe
The smell of tea leaves mingled with the dry August wind
The taste of sugar on my bun, almost a sharp tang
The slow burn, as the tea assaulted my tongue

My hand it skimmed along the pages
The whirls of my fingers, mingled along the ridges of-
The crumpled papers almost a hand thick
The not-so-straight lines, and scratchy ink

Letters. Every single page unique
Telling stories of a life untold, yet fully lived
Of love and laughter, and memories golden
But also of pain, of loss, of a childhood stolen

The letters, all mine, all written to me
Self-authored, self-read, self-published, and self-buried
Now out in the open, for all eyes to behold
But all they will see is a tiny mount of paper, dry and old

These words they cannot be held in any longer
They cry out to me, their voices growing stronger
And so, I’m sending my letters to Berlin
For my life it was un-started, now let it begin

Chiseche

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