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My hands

Clutched the single brown envelope

Even tighter

As I self consciously

Hid the scribbled address

And messily drawn little hearts

Averting

The befuddled, questioning gazes of

White-haired khakhi-clad men

Wondering aloud

What a liberally dressed

Young woman

Was doing

In a high-ceiled, wooden floored

Half a decade old

Post office?

 

What none of them know

Is that

The echoes of musical staccato of typewriters

The oddly soothing smell of starch paste

And the sight of stacked yellowing paper

Is more familiar

Than the rattling hum of repetitive music

The stench of distilled spirit

And the aesthetics of EDM concerts

 

Even in this era

Of virtual communication

My fingers are more accustomed

To put pen to paper

Than type avowals of love

On a white blank screen

And my eyes are usually glued

To handmade leaves of a diary

Than the black mirrors

Of a ceaseless stream of new-age devices

 

Alas, the quintessential term was love letters

And not love emails

And if preserving a lost art

Makes me old-school at heart

Then Iโ€™m guilty as charged

 

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