Maybe you wrote a letter,
the postman made a mistake.
I received it and maybe
I chose to write a reply,
just to be quirky.
Maybe you chose to be
quirky as well and wrote back
shortly and the postman
didn't make any mistake
this time.
Five-six reciprocation,
spread well over a year,
maybe we learned our
addresses by heart-
a two thousand kilometres
of distance against
an unknown longing is
always short.
But maybe by then,
I would have memorized
all the trains that pass
through your hometown.
Maybe you keep wondering
about the coarseness
of my voice all the time.
Maybe we keep writing,
keep yearning and
maybe everything about
this would invoke in us
something so irresistible,
that one day we meet
at a coastal town.
Or maybe we remain as
prisoners of our age
and era. Maybe you
get married and the letters
stop coming.
Maybe I do the same
and eventually forget
your imaginary face.
And maybe one day, I'll
have a kid, and while going
through his school atlas,
he'll stumble upon a town
and ask about it.
Maybe your kid would
do the same.
And maybe at the same
time we'd taste the same
sweetness and we'd smile
over this feeling of
knowing a town that we
never visited.