The penpal

I have an image for you;

One among many.

The rain drops and the coffee cup;

the grey sky and the wooden pane.

 

The parchment and the smudged ink stared at me,

“The end,” it said.

No clue as to why, what, where.

Just a tasteless goodbye.

 

3 years had been a long time;

It felt like decades or more.

But all it took was two words;

Was it so easy to let go?

 

I still remember the day we sang with words;

the day we laughed with the happy hand;

the day we cried with tear stains on paper;

the day we argued with drops of ink.

 

It was Moscow versus New Jersey;

Dostoevsky versus Bukowski;

Anna Karenina versus Dominique;

The fog versus the sun.

 

Separated by two seas and an ocean,

It never really mattered who looked like what,

or what color suited who,

or how one ate.

 

we lived by our words and words were our world;

but it was words that killed at last.

One article and one noun.

The end.

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