I am written in another language.

by Matthew Burgos

The classic possessions had a rough texture upon their skins that brought the nostalgia out of the sleeping mind of the person who would graze his fingertips over it. It was not enough to picture my devotion for this vintages – you must be able to dig it out my lonesome memories. It spoke about the words I tried to keep and the sentiments I managed to bury, and I would defy my own standards just to have them.

Of course, you would not understand it.

You had your hands locked in the keyboard while mine was punching the raunchy keys of a typewriter. You wrote your strings of verses through the electronic ink while I dipped the tip of my fountain pen inside a bottle of blue ink before I jot down my thoughts. Inside the brain of your computer, you played your favorite songs while I placed the cassette tape of a record inside the lips of the old player.

When I got home tonight, I noticed my study table was a stranger to me – you had arranged it. It did not slip from my eyes when you suffocated my treasured notebook with your up-to-date music player.


Thank you for reading this story. If you want to talk about random things with me, do not hesitate to reach me through my “Contact” page. All the best love, my dear.

let me hold your words before you leave;

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