jeanthomas
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musti.dab
There are still things I want to tell you.
Small things, mostly.
A plant I finally learned the name of.
Something stupid one of my cats did.
A sentence I heard on the street that would have made you laugh.
A tree somewhere in Berlin carrying fruit, the kind we would have stopped to inspect as if discovering it ourselves.
Sometimes something happens and my first thought is still:
I have to tell you this.
And for one tiny second, you still exist exactly where you used to.
Then I remember.
There is nowhere to send it anymore.
