I wish it had ended with a proper love letter
In the spirit of la recherche du temps perdu,
But on my plate there are no madeleines
And my poor memories haven’t got a clue
About the secrets written in invisible ink
Between the lines of our plethora of words
Just this crusty paper with its jagged edges
Encompassed by a plain white envelope
Addressed to a place I moved out of years ago
When life was still life, riddled with riddles
And its meaning could only be deciphered
In the postscripts carefully added down below
Maybe you never meant to mail it to me
Or perhaps it’s a forgotten letter to myself
I never sent
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