To the owner of the House,
It has brought about, after the turns of a century, magical visits…to seemingly, traditional lands. From, Pin the Tail, to watered down hand stands. Eight tracks of Irish Rovers. And, mostly, timid, first kisses of young lovers.
As of late,
I have thought of writing you…a receipt and leaving it in the rain. Chain letters to a Pen Pal who is no friend. Dismal, distant and watered down.
A ‘ME’ generation, side note, omitting the campfires. Doused in picturesque New England simplicity. Something penned before the anonymity.
Shameful, how life is plastic now. Communication, dim and surreal. I now realize, old fashioned…are the ways to inked expression. To pillage…random words, apparently, a wrong turn to yesterday’s dog-eared page. All those lonely letters, written in an out of the drizzling mist. Posted on days I wished for rain. Posted on days I begged for the rain.
If we had told each other’s secrets. Would we than…remembered ‘how to love?’