Fresh Loaf of Letters

Brewing coffee in morning haze,

steam writes stories in tender grays.

Old letters tied in ribbon and lace,

time left fingerprints on every face.

For once, I sit in open light,

no need to run, no urge to fight.

The silence hums, the pages breathe,

like ghosts who never chose to leave.

A rhythm plays no one can hear,

soft as footsteps disappearing near.

Not made for crowds, not loud or grand,

just something only I understand.

I smell the flowers on my way,

small-town blooms in sweet decay.

From baker’s arms and gentle days,

where kindness speaks in warm bouquets.

A loaf of letters, fresh and bare,

still holding scents of midnight air.

Each one a name I used to own,

a laugh, a tear, a voice unknown.

The streets exhale in vinyl tones,

of rain and rest and aching bones.

And maybe now I’ve lost the need

to chase applause I’ll never heed.

I want a rhythm slow and wide,

to dance with dusk, not run or hide.

A kitchen lit by golden mess,

a kind of calm that asks for less.

So here I stay, no grand goodbyes,

just coffee warm, and quiet skies.

No maps, no medals, no regret —

just morning songs I won’t forget.